The Advantages of Caring
by jaxington
Summary: At age ten he is a disappointment to his brother, more interested in dead things than deductions. When a small, strange girl moves to the village, Mycroft gets a protégé, but Sherlock finds something much more.
1. A Study in Pink

**This is my first venture into the lovely land of Sherlock and Molly.**

**I read a couple one-shot swaplock fics somewhere, and just wanted more, more, more.**

**So I wrote more.**

**Like... the whole series more.**

**We're doing a chapter per episode, maybe with one extra on the end.**

**As of now, I'm without a beta so I apologize for any and all errors. Also, on a related note, I am in the market for someone to beta this sucker. Let me know if you are interested.**

**Okay. Here we go. New story time. This is always so exciting.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: A Study in Pink**

As is rather typical, it is raining in London. Equally as typical, Sherlock Holmes finds himself without an umbrella.

Although he is needed at Bart's, instead of getting a cab he has spent the last twenty minutes tearing apart his flat in a futile search for the umbrella he purchased after a similar morning just last month.

He thinks perhaps his brother stole it, but Mycroft is rather particular about his umbrellas where Sherlock is not.

After another five minutes his cab arrives and Sherlock gives up. He pops the collar of his coat and huddles down in his scarf, sprinting from his front stoop to the waiting taxi.

Just before he reaches the vehicle, a very small person under an umbrella beats him to it. Her dress is extremely unpractical for the weather – beyond short, excessively tight, exposing fishnet covered legs - and Sherlock scowls at her safe and dry in the back of his taxi. For a moment he thinks her to be simply a rather aggressive lady of the night but under her bleached blond hair, there is something about the tilt of her head that is familiar.

"Molly!" he shouts, sliding in after her. He pulls the door shut behind him and scowls at her makeup job. Garish red changes the shape of her lovely, serious mouth, and he finds the blue contacts equally unpleasant. "Are you wearing a prosthetic nose? You are wearing a prosthetic nose."

"St. Bart's Hospital," she tells the cabbie, pulling off the wig.

"Is that my umbrella?" he demands, absolutely seething. His hair is nearly soaked.

"I was returning it. Just got a bit caught up. That's all."

"Caught up masquerading as a prostitute?"

"Yes. Hold this." She thrusts a ridding crop at him and suddenly the whole thing is so ridiculous that he struggles not to grin. His hair is soaking and she does not deserve his grin.

Removing a hair net and pins, she lets her hair fall down in messy waves around her shoulders. She shakes out her long locks, the natural light brown much more pleasing than the bleached monstrosity, and Sherlock tries not to stare.

"It was bloody hot in that wig," she mutters, frowning down at the mass of blonde in her lap. "No one ever recognizes me. Only you. I bumped into Morstan, totally on purpose, of course, and she wasn't the least bit suspicious. How'd you know?"

"Tilt of your head."

"Tilt of the head," she mutters, running her fingers through her hair before pulling it up into a ponytail. "Tilt of the head. I always, always forget something."

"And that's my umbrella."

"I was returning it to you!"

"What's all this for, then?" he asks, reclaiming his umbrella. "A case?"

"Yes, of course. Don't ask silly questions. You originally suspected Mycroft when you couldn't find your umbrella, didn't you? Before you recognized your own stupidity because Mycroft is very particular about his umbrellas."

"Molly," he says, letting his head drop back. He closes his eyes. "It is far too early in the day for this and I am far too wet."

"Would you prefer I just sit here silently for the remainder of the trip."

"Yes. Wonderful."

* * *

Molly Hooper is stronger than she looks.

It is easy to forget when she's standing about, being absurdly short, drowning in a hideous jumper, turning that intense, dark eyed stare on him as she catalogs every detail, but now he watches her, beating the corpse of his former colleague black and blue with a riding crop, and he is once more reminded.

Her face is scrubbed free of makeup and she changed into normal clothes she apparently stashed in his office. Now she is in his mortuary, fierce and perfect. Watching her is all he can do.

Molly Hooper is stronger than she looks.

Her innocent face and short stature is something she does not hesitate to use to her advantage, and the effect of her cultivated aura of weakness is devastating to the many fools who don't know better.

He knows better, yet Molly often devastates him. Thoroughly.

Hiding beneath her horrid wardrobe are hard muscles and strong limbs.

Sherlock tries very hard not to think on that as Molly finishes her assault and strides over to him, pushing the hair that escaped her ponytail back behind her ears.

"So, bad day, was it?" he asks, smirking slightly and wondering what she's been doing since they shared a cab in this morning.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," she informs him, in no mood to chat. As she talks she brandishes the riding crop it gets alarming close to his face. "A man's alibi depends on it."

"Right," he replies, taking the weapon from her hands and hanging it on a nearby hook. She doesn't seem to notice. "Any thing else?"

His annoyance and sarcasm also go unnoticed, or more likely, are deliberately ignored.

"Coffee. Black, two—"

"Yes, yes, two sugars. I am well aware of how you take your coffee, Molly," he replies.

"Then don't cock it up too badly," she says, turning on her heel. "I'll be upstairs."

Sherlock sighs, watching her go. It seems as though he is eternally watching her go.

* * *

He considers the laboratory door and then the mugs of coffee occupying each of his hands. He peaks through the narrow window on the off chance that Molly is lingering nearby to assist him.

She is hunched over her favorite microscope, staring at a blond stranger with a cane. He extends his mobile phone and Molly arises, nodding in thanks as she begins to text. Across the room Mike Stamford watches with a slight smile.

The sight of the stranger has him sloshing hot coffee all over his hands. Jealousy is an ugly thing, and it burns worse than the coffee.

Hunching nearly in half, he pushes down on the handle with his elbow and enters the lab.

"Which was it," Molly asks the stranger without glancing up from the borrowed phone. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Wait, sorry how did you—"

"Ah, Sherlock." She beams at him, that phony smile that he loathes. The one where her eyes squint to a ludicrous degree. The one that never fails to get her exactly what she wants. "Coffee. Thank you."

The "thank you" is a surprise and she accepts the beverage.

"You're welcome, Molly," he replies.

"Yes, yes." She waves him away, leaning to the side to look around him at the stranger. "How do you feel about cats?"

Jealous beyond reason and extremely uncomfortable, Sherlock retreats to the back of the lab, flipping through a file that he does not need just so he has an excuse to linger through the rest of the exchange.

"I'm sorry?" asks the stranger, blinking rapidly.

When he is not struggling against an irrationally jealous rage, Sherlock quite enjoys watching people meet Molly for the first time. The result of her _observing_ is typically blinking, gaping, and generally dumbfounded expressions. Occasionally there is violence.

"I have a cat," Molly says, handing back the phone. "Toby. I pet him while I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"

Flatmates.

The situation is much more dire then Sherlock previously thought. It has been a long time since Molly showed any interest in, well, anyone really, and now she wants a flatmate.

It is unfathomable.

By the time Molly is pulling on her ancient and excessively bright, red leather bomber that once belonged to her mother, Sherlock learns that the stranger is a former army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an alcoholic brother of whom the stranger does not approve.

Unlike most privy to Molly's _deducting_ for the first time, this man seems genuinely impressed.

He is blinking, gaping, and generally dumbfounded, but also impressed.

And he has an invitation to Baker Street, although Sherlock never catches his name.

* * *

There is a dead bird on the gravel road that leads from his house to the crumbling building that was once a stable, back before purebred horses were replaced with sports cars.

The dead bird is fascinating. Beneath its dull black feathers are bones and muscles that once allowed it to fly but now it's dead on the side of the road. Sherlock would very much like to know how it all works.

Despite his deep interest in the dead bird, there have been many dead birds this summer, but never a girl, staring down at the deceased creature with her skinny arms crossed over her chest.

She is new, not a child of the housekeeper or the gardener. The community surrounding the Holmes estate is not large and Sherlock knows all their faces.

The girl is new.

He stands opposite her, the dead bird between them at their feet.

"Hello," he says, trying to determine her age. She could very well be ten, like him, or younger. Perhaps she is simply small for her age, or maybe she is younger, but when she glances up at him, eyes dark and brown, he decides that she is actually much older than she looks.

She studies his face for a few seconds, eyes darting from feature to feature. The intensity of her stare is captivating and he frowns when she drops her gaze once more. Not once did she make eye contact and it makes him nervous.

"This is the fourth dead bird, far more than is average for this part of the country in the month of June. And that is only what I've happened upon in my five days since arriving. This _is_ a mystery," she says, tapping her chin as she continues to stare down at the bird.

As far as Sherlock is concerned, the girl on this road is the only mystery.

"I must save the birds. It is imperative I save the birds."

She uses big words like Mycroft, but while his brother always sounds bored the girl has passion.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he says, extending a hand just as Mycroft taught him. "I live—"

"Yes, yes," she interrupts, waving a hand around her head and staring at the dead bird. "You live up in the big house. I know. I could tell by your shoes."

Sherlock shuffles his feet. "My shoes?"

"Stuffy. Expensive. New. No wear on the soles as you spend the majority of the year off at boarding school where they do not have dirt roads."

And now she sounds even more like Mycroft.

"Ah," he says. "Yes. And you are?"

The little girl taps her chin twice and turns on her heel, veering of the road and making towards the woods, leaving Sherlock to gape at her retreating form.

"The name's Molly Hooper," she calls over her shoulder.

"Hooper?" Sherlock yells back. "As in Dr. Hooper in the village?"

"Yes. Are you coming? We really must save the birds. If we do not care about the birds, than no one will."

He nearly trips over his gangly, too long legs in his haste to follow.

* * *

"Your bother is an idiot," says Molly, making Sherlock jump. She is seated at her favorite microscope, hunched over and focused.

"What did he do?" Sherlock asks. His shift ended half an hour ago and he planned to clean up before spending the evening at home with his violin. But Molly is here for the first time in a week, so he gives up on classical music and take away in favor of chemistry and Molly ordering him about. "It must be bad. You only call him '_your_ _brother'_ when it is bad."

"He kidnapped John."

It is very hard work to keep his jealousy from lighting up like a green sign stamped on his forehead, visible only to Molly. He leans against the counter with long practiced nonchalance and watches her. "John?" he asks.

"New flatmate," she says, lifting her head to roll her eyes at him. "You met him weeks ago. Do keep up."

The man's name is new information, and Sherlock was hoping that the flatmate business was merely a Molly-whim, forgotten when something more exciting came along.

Apparently not.

"Mycroft kidnapped your new flatmate," Sherlock repeats. "Well, that seems right on. Did he return this John unharmed?"

"Yes, yes," she says, stretching her arms above her head, showing off her standard hideous jumper. "He offered John money to spy on me and the loyal idiot said no. We could have split it. Split the fee."

Sherlock snorts. "So they're both idiots, then."

"Yes."

"He's just worried about you, Mo. Can you really blame him?"

"Its been a years since an incident!" she snaps.

"Incident? Really, you are going with incident? That's how you are choosing to describe your addiction? And overdosing?"

"You Holmes boys." She waves a dismissive hand around her head. "I swear."

"Molly—" His attempt to be appeasing is immediately interrupted.

"I can blame him for being worried and I blame you," she says, arms crossed over hideous jumper number thirty-seven. "I am a grown woman with volumes more mental capacity than the bloody _British Government himself. _It is really overbearing. Even for Mycroft."

Sherlock grins because yes, Molly is certainly a genius but she always misses something.

"What?" she demands, eyes searching his face. "What did I miss? You absolutely must tell me, Sherlock."

"It was a test," Sherlock replies. "Mycroft was testing your new friend."

"Flatmate," Molly corrects. "Or maybe colleague is more appropriate as he is rather useful on a case, but not friend. Friend would imply sentiment."

Sherlock snorts. "God forbid you feel something for someone."

"A test," Molly says, turning back to whatever bizarre thing is undoubtedly beneath her microscope. "A test. A test in which accepting the money would have been a sign of a character flaw."

"Obviously," drawls Sherlock.

"And John passed." Although it is no question, Molly looks up at Sherlock, awaiting his confirmation. It is a habit leftover from their youth, when Molly was outcast and insecure, before she became a disciple of Mycroft and lost her father.

Before she changed form the girl who cared too much to the consulting detective who scoffs at sentiment_._

The expression is no less endearing now than it was before.

"It would seem so," he replies, smiling at her fondly.

"Good," Molly says, back to her work. "Good."

All feelings of warmth for the small, infuriating woman before him abruptly depart when he realizes that Molly is genuinely relieved that her _John _passed Mycroft's (first of many, Sherlock is sure) test.

"Is he… are you… is he your, ah." He clears his throat. This is uncharted territory as Molly's typical indifference to people has kept him from thinking on the very real possibility that she might someday elect to be with someone else.

She said colleague, she said roommate, but Sherlock must know.

"You are pretty when you blush," she says without looking up from her microscope. "Now how about those thumbs?"

"Are you together, Molly?"

This question does earn him eye contact, but under her narrow-eyed stare he feels like a lovesick fool.

"Together?" she asks, tapping her chin as she studies him. "At the moment, no. John is not here therefore we are not together. You and I are together. But I imagine John and I will be together at home later, with him trying to force an artery-clogging horror down my throat, no doubt. He's even worse than you with this obsession to feed me."

Sherlock nods and turns away, on a mission for thumbs, but something makes him brave. After all these years of allowing her to smile her way into whatever she wants, surely he deserves a real answer at the very least and he turns to face her once more, standing tall in the doorway, not even shuffling his feet. "You know very well what I meant, Molly."

She raises a single eyebrow, appraising him quickly in that way of hers that strips him so utterly.

"Not my area," she declares after a few moments of a silent standoff. Her microscope is suddenly more fascinating than Sherlock and she is back to it.

Again, it is not a real answer but more than he's come to expect from the consulting detective. "It used to be," he mutters.

She does not hear him or in the very least she pretends not to.

"And," she says, stopping him just before he turns back to the mission for thumbs, "John would shoot you for that ill-advised assumption, Sherlock. Do check your facts before making such asinine inquires. Angelo made a similar assumption and if John's deep discomfort was any indication I would say his preference is decidedly not towards the female. Does that answer satisfy?"

"You took John to Angelo's?" Sherlock asks, frowning.

"It was a case. Thumbs, Sherlock. Thumbs."

He wonders about Molly's preference for the remainder of the night as he sits by her, assisting with her experiments late into the night. If their long history is any indication, he would say her preference is decidedly not towards Sherlock Holmes.

Not anymore.

* * *

"We saved the birds, Dad."

Dr. Hooper set Sherlock's broken arm when he was six and saw him through a nasty bout of flu last year. He is a quite man and he seems to like Mycroft more than anyone should like Mycroft.

Now, he frowns down at Molly as he opens the door to them after supper.

"Oh," says Dr. Hooper, looking up from Molly to Mycroft who stands behind them, a hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder. "Where did you find her?"

"I did not find her," Mycroft replies. "It is my understanding that Miss Hooper spent the afternoon with my brother, saving the birds. I was under the impression she rang you about staying for supper. We fed her already, I'm afraid."

"I thought I told you to stay in the backyard, Molly," says Dr. Hooper.

At his side, Molly cowers, staring intently at her shoes.

"Perhaps in the future you should keep a more studious watch over your daughter, George," says Mycroft. "I was unaware you even had children."

Dr. Hooper rubs his temples.

"Dad," Molly says, bouncing in place. "Dad, we saved the birds. It was an illegal fertilizer. Poisoned them. Threw off the integrity of the whole ecosystem. But the birds will live, now. They'll live!"

Sherlock smiles at Molly, but Dr. Hooper doesn't. He looks at his daughter as if she is an alien invader. Sherlock doesn't understand how it's possible not to smile at Molly when she is so excited. Even Mycroft smiles back, did so all through supper, and usually all he does is sigh and sigh.

Dr. Hooper glances down at Molly, nods once, and looks back to Mycroft. "Fancy a drink?"

"Please, can we stay?" asks Sherlock. "Can we, Mycroft?"

"Oh, all right. One drink."

* * *

Molly Hooper shows Sherlock her room. The walls are covered with newspaper clippings and posters, maps and pictures of cats. She has an impressive number of books for someone who is ten – he asked her age three times before she seemed to notice – and she selects one, pushing it into his chest without looking at him.

"Your knowledge of birds is embarrassing. Might want to brush up."

* * *

There is a knock on his bedroom door and Sherlock marks his place in the book.

"Come in," he says.

Mummy enters and he sits up a bit straighter as she perches on the edge of his bed, hair slightly disheveled and grey suit wrinkled from a long day spent traveling.

"You're back!" says Sherlock, delighted.

"Yes, darling," she says, kissing his cheek. "I caught an earlier flight."

"How long until you have to be back with the symphony, Mummy?"

"I have a whole five days and I plan to spend it right here with you."

Compared to her typical day visits, five whole days seems an eternity. Grinning, he throws his arms around her neck.

"Will you read to me?" he asks, scooting over in bed to make room for her. She kicks off her heels and stretches out beside him, extending her legs over the covers.

"_The Anatomy of Land Birds_?" she reads, raising an eyebrow in question. "This is a far cry from your usual pirate stories, isn't it?"

Color floods his cheeks and he stares at his lap. "It's interesting."

"Does this have anything with your little adventure with Molly Hooper?" she asks.

"How did you know? Mycroft. Mycroft told you. Mycroft tells you _everything._"

She laughs a bit and brushes his dark curls off his forehead. "That is his job as the oldest. You know he is in charge when I am away."

And she's always away. Which means Mycroft is always in charge.

"It was a mystery, Mummy," Sherlock says, the excitement of the day returning. "Molly and I solved the mystery. Well, Molly truly solved it but I was her assistant."

"That's lovely, darling. I'm glad you've made a new friend. Molly Hooper could use a friend like you."

"Why, Mummy?"

"Well, she is new to the village," Mummy replies.

"I know. She is Dr. Hooper's daughter. But she just met him for the first time last week! Isn't that strange?"

"Quite strange."

"Molly says her Mummy drank herself to death and that is why she is living here with Dr. Hooper who she met for the first time last week. What did she drink that made her die? You don't drink it, do you?" he asks, suddenly very concerned.

"Not like that, Sherlock. She certainly gave you a great deal of detail, didn't she?"

"I think Molly likes detail a great deal, Mummy. Also she likes mysteries and saving things from dying."

"So it would seem."

"Tomorrow I will show her the pond." His eyelids get heavy as he snuggles into Mummy's side. "Can you read now?"

"Of course, darling."

He manages to stay awake for a full four minutes before he drifts off.


	2. The Blind Banker

**People are reading this! Excellent! Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, bookmarking, whatever. You are the best ones.**

**Big thanks to my lovely betas.**  
**1st beta: Monica, aka mattressesflollop **  
**Final beta: The ever wonderful Donna who has helped me out on several projects before.**

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Blind Banker**

"What are you thinking?" she asks. "Pork or pasta?"

"Oh." Sherlock blinks down at Molly who's just appeared at his side. "It's you."

"Is that any way to greet your oldest of friends?"

"Molly! By Jove! It's smashing to see you. Truly, _smashing_!"

His false enthusiasm and saccharine tone do not impress the detective and, rolling her eyes, she turns back to the buffet before them.

"I'd stick with the pasta. Don't want to be doing roast pork, not if you're slicing up cadavers," she says, far too cheery for this late in the evening.

The putrid smell of the cafeteria – and his gourmet supper, packed and perfect and left home in his refrigerator – have him in a mood. Molly's presence brightens it slightly, although he is well aware that she is only here because she needs some exhausting favor or another.

"What are you having?" he asks, considering the options before him: Both equally disgusting.

"Sherlock, you know I don't eat when I'm working." She smiles and pats her stomach. "Digesting slows me down."

"Right." He does know better, but part of him hoped she was here for the company only. His company. "Working. Why else would you be here?"

"Why indeed. I need to examine some bodies."

She gives him names and he consults his list.

"Could you wheel them out again for me?"

"Molly," he says, groaning slightly. "The paperwork's already gone through."

"You cut your hair," she says, dazzling him with her smile.

"Don't," he replies, once more looking at the truly sordid dinner options before him. "Don't you do that."

"It suits you," Molly says, pressing against his side. She pushes her fingers through his hair.

"Molly!" he scolds. "There is no need for that. All you must do is to ask nicely."

"I did ask nicely," she snaps, all charm rapidly deteriorating as she stomps her foot and pouts.

"Say '_please_.'"

She scowls at him for another few seconds. "Please, Sherlock. Please let me have a look at the bodies."

"Of course, Molly. Anything for my oldest of friends."

"Tosser," she whispers as he leads the way to the mortuary and Sherlock grins down at the paperwork clutched in his hands.

"You better not be wasting my time, Miss Hooper." A law enforcement official that is decidedly not Detective Inspector Morstan, Molly's typical contact from the yard, falls into step with them as they emerge from the lift.

At his side, Molly is rolling her eyes again. She tugs the sleeves of her jumper over her hands.

"Give my pathologist a bit of time, DI Dimmock," she says. "Just a few moments more."

Sherlock holds the door to the mortuary open for Molly and the new DI, gesturing for them to enter.

"We're just interested in the feet," she declares.

It is far from the strangest thing he's ever heard Molly say.

* * *

"Bloody posh uniform." Molly tugs on the collar of her crisp white shirt, and slouches in her seat, eyes darting around in her head as she watches the countryside whiz by.

"Such language only contributed to you getting thrown out of your last school, Molly," Mycroft says from behind his newspaper.

Next to Molly, Sherlock silently imitates his brother. When she grins at him it feels like a great success and his heart nearly flies out of his chest.

"I did not get kicked out," Molly says, her gaze once more on the window. "It was merely suggested that my education might benefit from a change in scenery."

He is not entirely sure what prompted Molly's departure from the local school and she certainly isn't giving details, but apparently she was trying to help someone and the whole thing went horribly awry.

Typical story, really.

Sherlock is very glad she's here. Since finding Molly Hooper on the side of the road, studying a dead bird five summers ago, leaving for school has always been particularly painful for it means leaving her behind.

But this year everything is different, as evidenced by Molly sitting at his side in a uniform identical to his.

"Regardless of circumstance, it is my belief that you will be far happier away at school with Sherlock," says Mycroft.

Sherlock wonders if George had any input in Molly's schooling. The doctor is probably glad to be rid of her, the giant wanker.

"School is boring. Classmates are boring. It's all so boring, boring, boring." She slumps even father in her seat and nearly tumbles to floor of the compartment.

"All your courses will be very advanced. Perhaps you will find some subject that will keep your interest enough to inspire grades good enough to keep you from failing out," Mycroft says, still behind his newspaper.

Molly glances up at Sherlock, anticipating another Mycroft impression, but she gets none. Sherlock agrees with his brother in this and hopes that Molly takes this opportunity as the fresh start it is. Despite being the smartest person Sherlock can ever even imagine knowing, she is crap in matters of school and her marks are notoriously poor.

"You too, Sherlock?" she whispers.

"It'll be good, Mo. Promise."

She very nearly smiles at him.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Molly tugs on his elbow, stopping his forward movement towards the library, the first location on Molly's tour of campus. He glances up from Molly at his side – in recent years not looking at her has grown difficult – to see a pair of his friends quickly approaching them.

He understands her panic, the strength of her grip on his arm. Between getting off the train, completing paperwork in the office, getting settled in her room, and now, Molly's barely spoken a word. She's looked only at her feet and Sherlock is nervous too. This is difficult for her, he knows, and although he's not actually seen Molly interact with her peers in a school setting before, the few run ins they've had with local kids over summer were painful. With adults, with Sherlock, Molly is enthusiastic and bright but it's all been teased right out of her by damnably cruel youths.

"You know them?" she says to her feet.

"Yeah. They're my mates. But we can make a run for it."

"No, no, no. You... you, pro-probably missed them this summer. I'll just sta- sta- stand here silently."

Stuttering. Not a good sign.

"You don't want me to introduce you?" he murmurs, eyeing his friends as they rush across the quad.

"Would it be strange? To not introduce me?" she asks, turning her back on the boys, pressing herself into his side and standing on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

"A bit. It would be a bit strange."

"Hey! Sherlock! How's it going, mate?"

"Introduce me!" Molly hisses before stepping away to meet his friends head on. She lingers close, slightly behind Sherlock, halfway hiding.

"Hello," says Sherlock, grinning as he shakes Victor's hand. This one, he genuinely did miss.

The same cannot be said for the other.

Sherlock not overly social himself, although compared to Molly he is the life of the party. But truly he has few friends of higher quality rather than many loose acquaintances. The other boy, bulky, mean Carl Powers, is not so much a friend but more of an annoyance Sherlock is forced to tolerate.

"Victor. Carl. I trust you had a good summer?" he asks.

"Oh, you know. Got a bit boring, at the end," says Victor, shrugging.

Carl is staring intently at Molly who is staring intently at her feet.

"Who's this then?" Carl crosses her massive arms over his chest and leers at Molly.

_Leers_.

"This is my best friend, Molly," he says, placing his hand on her shoulder. He focuses on making this a bit easier for Molly rather than his sudden and powerful hate for Carl. "Molly, this is Victor and Carl."

"Hello, hello," Molly chirps. She darts forward, vigorously shaking first Victor's hand and then Carl's as she stares at their feet now, before quickly retreating to Sherlock's side. She vibrates in place and Sherlock does not approve of the look on Carl's face. While a moment ago he was leering, now he appears repulsed. Although Molly's behavior is a bit strange – the handshake went on too long and spanned to great a distance, too high then too low – there is no need to look so scandalized.

Greetings and handshakes and other social niceties do not come naturally to everyone. Sherlock learned this from Molly ages ago.

"Molly Hooper?" asks Victor, smirking at Sherlock. For years, Victor has teased Sherlock for being hung up on a girl back home and Sherlock blushes. "I was beginning to think Holmes here invented you as an excuse to explain why he never goes on dates."

"No," Sherlock attempts to explain. "We are merely friends."

"No, Sherlock." For the first time in hours she looks at his face to pout at him for a moment. "Not just mates. Best friends. And I've heard of you as well, Victor. Sherlock likes you because you are the only one around here who can keep up with him academically."

"Oi!" shouts Carl.

Molly flinches, but otherwise ignores the interruption as she once more stares at her shoes. "Although the humanities are more your area while Sherlock is blindly devoted to the sciences. You really should start writing for the school newspaper. As daunting as it must be you have nothing to be embarrassed of and I see you've wanted to try for sometime."

"Wow," Victor says, blinking. "You told her all that did you, Holmes?"

"No, no, no," says Molly, waving a hand around her head. "I can see it for myself. Oh, and I'm dreadfully sorry about your dog. Had him your whole life, did you? It seems as though he waited for you to come home for summer before succumbing to old age. That's something."

Victor's eyes are wide and Sherlock tries not to laugh. "It was a cat, actually."

"A cat!" shouts Molly, stomping her foot. "Of course it was a cat. I always miss something, don't I, Sherlock?"

"So it would seem, Molly."

"You, now you, Sherlock has not spoken of," Molly continues, obviously talking about Carl now. Although perhaps this is only clear to Sherlock as the other boys look wholly bemused. "I can help you, you know. Just because you don't have a head for maths does not mean that you'll need to be held back another year. I'm excellent in maths, although Sherlock would probably make a better tutor as he actually cares about completely arbitrary grading systems. He could help you. Wouldn't you help him, Sherlock?"

Carl is now glaring daggers at Molly, hands clenched at his sides. "What the fuck you say?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says to the ground. Sherlock's hand is back on her shoulder as he stares down Carl. "I've made you mad. That was not my intent. I was merely saying that all is not lost in the maths department. And better marks will surely make things less tense at home. Give your mother once less thing to criticize. And it's eczema, by the way. You have eczema and I would suggest going out for swim as you certainly have the shoulders for it if not the waist."

"Who told you about my Mum!" shrieks Carl.

"No- no- no- no one!" Molly squeaks.

"Hey, Carl, Why don't you calm down? Although it might not seem like it, she was trying to help," says Sherlock, putting himself between Molly and the enraged boy before them. Although physically she could probably take out Carl, clumsy as he is, as she's been training with Mycroft for years. But he knows this situation is horrible for Molly and he feels the need to protect her in anyway he can.

"Who the fuck told!" yells Carl, taking a step forward. Victor has his arm now, pulling him back.

"I observe!" says Molly. She turns to hide her face against Sherlock's arm. "I observe and deduce. Was it not good, Sherlock? I was just trying to help."

"I know, Mo. It was a bit personal, that's all."

"Oh."

"Carl, there's no need to get violent, yeah?" says Victor.

Carl yanks his arm from Victor's grip. "Fuck you, bitch." Molly flinches again. If it wasn't for her quaking presence at his side, he'd tackle Carl, right here. "Keep your girlfriend under control, Holmes!"

And then he is stalking off across the campus.

"Come on, Molly," Sherlock murmurs. "He's gone now. It's over."

Sighing heavily, Molly steps away from Sherlock and scrubs her hands over her face. "Stupid, stupid," she mutters. "That was horrible of me, wasn't it Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't say horrible. Certainly not good. Again, too personal but your intentions were pure and nothing you said warranted such a reaction," Sherlock says, getting angry all over again as he thinks on it.

"I embarrassed you," she says, glancing up at him. "Didn't I? I talked about this with Mycroft. Tying to _not_ embarrassing you I mean. But I just failed so spectacularly! I didn't want to embarrass you!"

"Really? You think I care about Carl Powers or his undoubtedly stupid opinions? I can't stand the bloke. Frankly, he deserves a good beating for what he said to you. Mycroft thought you'd embarrass me?" Sherlock asks, frowning.

"No, no, no. I thought that. He scoffed and said that you adore me."

"Right he is."

Molly flashes him a beautiful, brilliant, blinding smile before she returns to her hand wringing and fretting.

"I am sorry. I get nervous and it all just comes tumbling out and I want your friends to like me so I thought to make myself useful," she murmurs, tears in her eyes now.

"You can't save everyone, Molly. Especially if they don't want help."

These familiar words make Molly smile again, tears evaporating into nothing.

"Yes, yes." She nods. "So you say."

Sherlock smiles down at Molly, once more so pleased to have her here. His reasons are mostly selfish as he always wants to be near Molly, but he feels confident that being at this school will benefit her as well. Before, Molly would be forced to deal with the aftermath of such situations on her own. Here, she has Sherlock to talk her through it.

He smiles at her again, wondering when she got so beautiful. Sometimes the softness of her face makes his chest tight.

"So," says Victor. He clears his throat.

Sherlock startles, having totally forgot about his friend's presence. "Ah, Victor. Thank you for your assistance there. Things got a bit tense, didn't they?"

Victor laughs, as easy as he always is. "You could say so, mate."

"Yes, thank you, Victor," Molly says. Again, thanking is not a natural inclination for Molly but she does all right following Sherlock's lead.

"So, have you seen the library yet, Molly? It seems like your kind of place. Plus, maybe you can take a look at something I've written? Maybe give me some edits before I submitted it to the paper?"

"Really?" Molly lights up and Sherlock's chest gets even tighter. "You'd like my help?"

"Sure. Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine so I figure I can trust you with my writing."

Sherlock is no longer nervous. Molly will be all right here. In fact he is sure she will flourish.

* * *

He yawns his way through the last hour of his shift and dozes off in the taxi on the way to his flat. After a scalding shower, he considers the refrigerator but gets distracted by his violin. He plays for several hours, knowing he should retire for the night but still unable to put down his instrument.

The music relaxes him more than sleep does, feeds something in him that food does not satisfy.

When he finally does finish, he turns to see Molly sprawled out on his sofa. Eyes closed, breathing deep, she did not even manage to remove her leather jacket before succumbing to sleep.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock watches her for a moment. He smiles, taking in her delicate features made soft by sleep. Her cheek rests on her hands and one leg has fallen off the sofa, her boot resting on floor.

Sherlock removes her shoes and places her leg gently back on the cushion. He covers her with a throw and tries not to let the fluttering in his chest get too out of control when she sighs as he touches her cheek.

* * *

It is well after ten when Sherlock wakes. At some point in the night, Molly migrated from the couch to his bed. She facing him and awake, probably has been for quite some time.

In moments such as this, he does not regret that she somehow managed to hold onto her key, despite everything that's happened since she moved from the flat.

Since Sherlock kicked her out, more accurately.

If he ever manages to find – and even more daunting, maintain – a girlfriend he'll really have to get that key. Although a few locks are far from enough to keep Molly out.

"I'm hungry," she declares.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Vigorous case, was it?"

"John was kidnapped."

"By Mycroft? Again?"

"No, this time the threat was far more serious." She throws back the covers and sits up, stretching her arms above her head, revealing hideous jumper number eleven. "Deadly, even. But never fear. I saved the day and solved the case, as per the usual. Sherlock, I'm hungry."

He blinks at her and then pulls the blanket over his head.

"Sherlock!"

"Doesn't your Doctor John typically feed you?" His deep voice is muffled by layers of bedding.

"He is preoccupied after last night with another doctor called Cyril. Cyril was also kidnapped. Not the best way to end a first date, so I imagine John spent the night attempting to redeem him self with intercourse. When we returned home he absolutely refused to even make me a sandwich."

"Huh," mutters Sherlock into his pillow, closing his eyes once more.

"Sherlock, breakfast." She pokes him in the side.

"Ten minutes more." He grunts, Molly falls silent, and he drifts off to sleep again.

"Breakfast, Sherlock," Molly says, approximately three seconds later.

"I said ten minutes!"

"It's been ten minutes."

"Has not."

"Down to the second. We are well over at this point. After all this unnecessary speaking."

Sherlock emerges from the blankets to squint at Molly. "Say '_please'_."

"I haven't eaten in four days. There is nothing in the fridge at Baker Street but dactyls and John's leftover take-away that I've been banned from consuming. Please cook me breakfast, you giant tosser."

Sherlock chuckles and rolls out of bed. Molly follows close behind him as he moves to the kitchen and removes a carton of eggs from the fridge.

"Do you remember Bastian? From uni?" she asks, busying herself with the kettle.

Sherlock pulls a face. "Holland? I hated him."

"Did you?" She sounds absolutely giddy at the prospect, beaming at him and bouncing over to the sink to fill it. "Yes, of course you did. He asked me out. Of course you hated him."

"That's not why!" Sherlock insists, turning away from her to hide the color in his cheeks. "Well, not wholly. He was a vulgar, obnoxious plebian, Mo. How could I possibly not hate him?"

"Yes, well. Works in banking now. That's where I found the case."

"Holland had a case for you that prevented you from eating for four days?" Sherlock asks, busying himself with preparing their breakfast.

"Yes, he contacted me to find the hole in his firm's security. They had a breech perpetuated by a Chinese smuggling ring," she says, as if it should have been obvious.

As bizarre as it sounds, the whole thing is pretty standard where Molly's concerned.

She recounts the details of her latest case and her own brilliance. Sherlock listens happily, soothed by the enthusiasm in her voice and her presence in his kitchen, demanding as it maybe.

* * *

"I don't know how you stand to spend ten minutes around her, Sherlock," says Carl as they make their way from the science building to the canteen. "She has no since of privacy. How does she know all that? It's creepy."

His hand tightens on the strap of his bag. "She observes. That's all. You'll get used to it." In the months since returning to school, Sherlock has not forgotten or forgiven Carl's behavior towards Molly that first day. The idiot seems completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock is on the precipice of extreme violence.

"No way," says Carl. "Under no circumstances will I be getting used to it."

"I like her," says Victor. "Those dark eyes really do it for me."

This statement, though seemingly more complimentary, is equally enraging to Sherlock, although simply the latest in Victor's never ending campaign to get Sherlock to admit his feelings for Molly and therefore forgivable.

"The small, dowdy ones are wild in bed," says Carl. "Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't know," he replies through a clenched jaw. "Molly is simply my close friend and I find this talk highly offensive. I barely restrained myself last time you spoke to her and have no plans to do so again if you continue."

Despite his seriousness, Carl laughs.

"Come off it, Sherlock," he says. "No way has a bloke put up with a girl like that unless they're getting shag out of it."

Sherlock turns red, a combination of embarrassment and rage. "Stop!" He demands, rounding on Carl. "You will not talk about Molly that way. I will not hear it!"

"You like her," Carl says, poking Sherlock in the chest. "You _love_ her. You're in love with a psychopath! What the fuck does that make you?"

"High functioning sociopath." At the sound of Molly's voice all three boys whirl around. She stands in her rumpled uniform, arms crossed over her chest, absolutely furious.

Sherlock gapes at her. Something in his Molly seems to have changed since he saw her – last night, dinner – and for the first time she is filled with a righteous anger, a resolve, a demand for respect.

For a moment he forgets his embarrassment and discomfort for he is simply proud.

"Sociopath?" stutters Carl, looking properly frightened.

"Do your research," she snaps before turning on her heel and stomping in the opposite direction.

Carl laughs, the sound uncomfortable this time, and rather than punch his former friend's face, Sherlock follows a fleeing Molly, finally catching up with her in a clump of trees just behind the chapel.

"Molly, I'm sorry," he says, although he's not totally sure what exactly he is apologizing for.

Definitely for his terrible choice in companions. Maybe because he failed to protect her from such mockery.

She drops her book bag in the dirt and proceeds to climb the nearest tree. Her movements easy and lithe, hidden muscles making the climb seem effortless. She stretches out on a limb some ten feet above Sherlock's head.

"Molly?"

She taps her chin and does not respond. Sherlock tries several more times to get a few words from her, but she remains silent, lost in her Mind Palace. Seeing no other option, Sherlock places his bag by Molly's and starts to climb.

He is nowhere near as graceful, but he manages to settle on a branch just below her.

"You are not a high functioning sociopath," he says.

"Course I am."

"You are not."

"Yes, I am Sherlock. It must be obvious even to you that I am not like these _normal_ people." She speaks with utter contempt. It is am improvement on her usual sadness and hurt.

"No. You are autistic."

Her head snaps around and she glares at him. Despite her size and her delicate features, the effect is terrifying.

"How could you possibly know that?" she whispers.

"I overheard your father discussing it with Mycroft years ago," he says, shrugging.

"Years. You've known for years?"

"Yes."

"And you said nothing?"

"What should I have said?"

"Nothing."

"Alright then."

For a moment, Molly is silent. Sherlock is a bit baffled as Molly has a tendency to know everything. How she could have missed his knowledge in this area is a mystery.

"It's only the smallest possible bit of autism," she whispers.

"It doesn't matter, Molly," he replies. "You are brilliant and that's that."

Molly is tapping her chin again, but she relaxes back against the tree.

"Sociopath?" He squints up at her. "Truly? You truly thought you could pull of sociopath?"

"Maybe?" she ventures.

"No. Absolutely not. If anything you are the direct opposite of a sociopath. You care. You care with everything you are, even for useless wastes of space like Carl Powers."

"People matter, Sherlock."

"Some people," he mutters.

Sherlock adjusts, trying to find a more comfortable position leaning back against the truck of the tree. Molly stares straight ahead, tapping her chin with a finger.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Did you very nearly assault Carl out of some misbegotten sense of duty? To defend my honor, so to speak?" she asks, talking slowly as if she hasn't quite figured it out as of yet.

Sherlock chuckles. "Maybe."

"I think I should be the one beating people up in the future, thank you. I'm much better at it than you."

"You're welcome. Anytime."

She very nearly smiles.


	3. The Great Game

**Chapter 3: The Great Game**

Sherlock frets over the rumble in 221B, kicking at the glass from the blown out windows as Mycroft and Molly sit facing each other behind him, glaring and sniping. He is still in somewhat of a panic, as he has been since Mycroft rang him in the dead of night.

"_She's unharmed, but Baker Street did explode. Please, do try to remain calm, Sherlock."_

The tightness in his chest abated a bit when they arrived to find Molly, showered and wearing hideous jumper number twenty-two, sitting in her chair with a morose Toby in her lap and her legs tucked beneath her. He crouched in front of her, touching her cheeks and shoulders and hands, checking her pupils and searching for other injuries until she batted away his hands with a terse, _really, Sherlock._

Now he attempts to board up the windows as Mycroft and Molly partake in the usual battle of the wills. She has never quite forgiven the elder Holmes brother for his actions during her most self-destructive period, and despite the way he saved her life, Molly remains stubborn when Mycroft attempts to tell her what to do.

"Molly! Molly!" Thundering footsteps and the voice of Dr. John Watson echo up the staircase. When he emerges a moment later he is winded, glancing wild-eyed about the flat.

"John," Molly greets, hand moving from Toby's head all the way down his body and along his tail. Her eyes never leave Mycroft. Surely she is staring at his forehead or that odd birthmark on his cheek because Molly does not do bouts of prolonged eye contact.

"I saw it on the telly," says John, glancing briefly to Mycroft fiddling with his umbrella and to Sherlock fiddling with the windows before staring intently at Molly once more. "Are you okay?"

"Me? What?" asks Molly. She too surveys the room, gaze landing on Sherlock and the damage to the flat. "Oh, yes. Fine. Gas leak, apparently." She goes back to scowling at Mycroft and gives Toby's ear a particularly vigorous scratch. "I can't," she says.

"Can't?" echoes Mycroft.

"The stuff I've got on is just too much. Much too much." She waves a hand around her head. "I can't possibly spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?" Molly asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as they have now reached the petty, childish portion of the program.

"Fine," Mycroft says, drawing out the syllable. "Perhaps you can get through to her, John."

Sherlock turns to the good doctor, surprised to catch him staring. He supposes his presence in John's flat must seem strange as they've only briefly been in the lab together once, and Molly did not bother to properly introduce them as she hardly ever remembers such things. Although Sherlock's heard a great deal of John, it is obvious that Molly has not told her flatmate anything about Sherlock.

He tries not to let it get to him.

"What?" says John, turning back to Molly. There is a bit of color in his cheeks and he clears his throat, glancing down at his shoes. "Sorry, what?"

"Oh, have you not met my brother, Sherlock?" Mycroft says, shooting Molly a look.

"Your brother? I didn't know you had two brothers, Molly," John says.

"I, in fact, have no brothers," says Molly, scowling over her shoulder at Sherlock before she goes back to scowling at Mycroft.

"Wait," says John. "What?"

"This domineering wanker is in no way related to me," Molly says. "Mycroft is not my brother, nor does he have any right to tell me what to do."

"Right," says John, clearly not understanding. "Well, nice to meet you, Sherlock."

He extends a hand. Sherlock takes it.

"Likewise," he replies.

"I'm afraid our Miss Hooper can be very intransigent," Mycroft continues, voice bored.

"If you're so bloody keen, why don't you investigate it," Molly mutters.

"No, no," says Mycroft, spinning his umbrella. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so..."

All eyes go to John, who looks uncomfortable under such scrutiny. Sherlock can hardly blame him.

"Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" continues Mycroft. "Besides, a case like this, it requires legwork. Isn't that right, John?"

Sherlock has nothing to contribute as Mycroft and Molly "deduce" the poor doctor who apparently spent the night on Cyril's sofa, but this is a rare opportunity to finally get to know this man that Molly inexplicably let into her life, so he decides to pay attention.

Sherlock sits on the arm of Molly's chair and scratches Toby's chin until they are done tormenting the doctor.

"What's our dear Molly like to live with?" Mycroft asks. "Hellish, I imagine."

"Well, I'm never bored," replies John.

"Good. That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft rises and attempts to hand Molly a file. She turns up her nose and rolls her eyes at Sherlock.

When Molly proves uncooperative, Mycroft hands the file to John and begins filling him in on the details of the case Molly refuses to take, yammering on about a man dead on the train tracks and the missing plans to a newly developed missile system. Sherlock doesn't care to hear the details. The small shades of gold in Molly's otherwise dark eyes are far more interesting.

"Don't make me order you," Mycroft says as he departs, pointing his umbrella at Molly.

"I'd like to see you try," she replies, prissy and prim.

"Think it over. Sherlock?"

Taking his cue to depart, he gives Molly's shoulder a quick squeeze, once more reassuring himself that she is alive and unharmed, before following his brother.

"Nice to meet you," he says, once more shaking John's hand. The doctor returns the handshake, blushing and nodding. It makes Sherlock feel loads better about Molly's current living situation.

"Yes, goodbye, John." Mycroft extends his hand next. "See you very soon."

As they walk down the stairs, John's irate demand follows. "Not your brother? What do you mean, not your brother? Jesus, Molly."

Mycroft and Sherlock exchange smiles, but manage to keep from laughing until they reach the car waiting for them out front.

* * *

Molly becomes obsessed with shoes, a pair of old trainers that may have been the pinnacle of style decades ago, but are now nothing, save for Molly's latest obsession. When he asks for an explanation, she simply says "case."

He does not push.

If this proves to be a good one, she'll tell him eventually, and if not, then he doesn't particularly care about the details or why these shoes are so important.

After his morning post mortems, he finds her in the lab, bent over her microscope of choice.

"Any luck?" Sherlock asks, nodding at John as he moves to Molly's side.

"Oh, yes," she replies. "It's—"

"Hello." A fourth person sticks his head in the room and Molly glares at the intrusion. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not a problem, Jim," says Sherlock, waving him in. "This is Molly Hooper."

"Ah," says Jim, beaming.

"And Dr. Watson," Sherlock says. But Jim only has eyes for Molly and Sherlock suddenly regrets making this introduction very much.

"Hi," says John.

"Hi," replies Jim, glancing at the doctor before going back to stare intently at the back of Molly's head. "So you're Molly Hooper. Sherlock's told me all about you."

Sherlock frowns, as this is not wholly accurate. He's simply mentioned that Molly has access here and that her crime solving abilities are quite impressive.

"Are you on one of your cases?" asks Jim, despite Molly's obvious disinterest.

"Jim's new. Works in IT upstairs," Sherlock explains. "Did you need something, Jim?"

"Yeah, we still on for lunch, Sherlock?"

He glances at his watch, surprised by the late hour. "Yes. Just give me a moment here. I'll meet you out front. Say in ten?"

"Right, right." Jim from IT backs up towards the door. "Well, it was really great to meet you, Molly."

He pauses at the door, waiting for some response from the consulting detective. She continues her study and Sherlock highly doubts she will ever glance up.

"You too," says John, finally, unable to endure the awkward tension another moment longer.

And then Jim from IT is gone.

"So, what did you find, Molly?" Sherlock asks, picking up where they left off before the interruption.

"Lunch date," she says, glaring at him. "You've a lunch date. Shouldn't you get to it?"

"Pardon?"

"Your date with this man from IT is obviously far more interesting than this case," she says. "You may go."

She waves a hand in his face and turns back to her microscope. Sherlock tries to refrain from smirking, for he has not seen Molly jealous in many years. There really is no other explanation for her current behavior.

"It's not a date," Sherlock says.

"Is he aware of that fact?"

"Course he is. He's new, trying to make work friends. It's not a date."

"He's very clearly gay," she replies.

"Oh really?" asks John, crossing his arms over his chest.

Molly opens her mouth, ready to expound on all she's observed that she considers proof of Jim's homosexuality.

"No," Sherlock interrupts. "No, I don't need to hear it. I don't care if you think it's a date. It's not. I have no interest in dating men, as you very well know, but I will be going to lunch with Jim as he is new and in need of work friends. Good luck with the case. Goodbye, John."

He meets Jim from IT out front and they get Thai.

* * *

"Sherlock, have you ever done any sort of kissing?" Molly comes to stand beside his seat at the cafeteria, where he is sharing lunch with Victor, discussing anatomy and A levels.

"What? _What_! Pardon?" Sherlock blinks up at her, thinking that he must have misheard her. He glances at Victor who appears equally dumbfounded. If his friend's expression is any indication, Molly did indeed speak that particularly bizarre combination of words.

"Kissing, Sherlock." She snaps her fingers in his face. "Kissing. Do keep up."

Molly is staring at his lips and Sherlock is sure that he's fallen into some wonderfully strange alternative reality where Molly is not only interested in such things, but interested in Sherlock specifically.

Her hand is on his shoulder and she is still staring at his lips. Across the table, Victor clears his throat, snapping Sherlock out of his dazed state.

"Um, right," he says, attempting to stand. His foot catches on the leg of the table and Molly steadies him, her hands on his hips. "Victor, if you'll excuse us."

Without looking at her, he strides out of the cafeteria. She then does the most peculiar thing, slipping her hand into his and lacing their fingers together. When he gets them to the hall, he stops so he can gape down at their joined hands without the distraction of walking.

"You are holding my hand, Molly," he says. "You are holding my hand."

"So? People do this sort of thing all the time. Surely I've held your hand before."

"No, you most certainly have not."

"I'm sure I have."

"Molly."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Why are you holding my hand?"

Molly frowns at him as if he is an utter moron and then she smiles, that false, too bright smile that makes her eyes squint too much. It is the smile she gives him to convince him to go along with some outrageous scheme or another. He hates this smile because he knows she is using his affection for her to get whatever she wants, but he's not once found the strength to say no.

"Sherlock, we are here to discuss kissing." She pushes her body into his, fingers of her free hand walking up his tie.

Molly mimics the lovesick teenagers that fill this school and her execution is near perfect. If she tried the routine on someone who had not been watching her obsessively for the past seven years, then she would be completely convincing as the seductress.

"Molly," he says, a warning, a plea.

"I've seen you, Sherlock Holmes. Watching me. And it's not like before. Now you watch and you want."

Her arms are around his neck now, her lips far too close to his, but she isn't his Molly. She is acting, a reflection of all the behavior she's observed around them, and he cannot stand it.

"Molly, stop." His deep voice is harsh and a hint too mean. Molly seems to shrink, her arms dropping. To keep her from fleeing all together, he rests his hands on her shoulders. "What is this?"

She sighs and then pouts. "I read in a book about the effects of kissing on the various bodily systems and I would like to corroborate these findings."

"So," Sherlock says, striving to understand. "You need me for an experiment and rather than ask, you decide the best course of action is to seduce me?"

"A failed course of action, you tosser," she mutters.

The pout of her lips is completely endearing and Sherlock smiles, finally giving into the urge to run his thumb over her cheekbone. Molly's eyes go wide but she does not pull away.

"When you ask me something and do it nicely, have I ever said no?" he asks.

"No," she concedes, looking thoroughly displeased.

"So why didn't you just ask, Molly?"

She shrugs and Sherlock truly is a tosser for questioning her motives. If he could have ignored her little role-play, in all likelihood he would be kissing her right this moment.

"So have you?" she asks. Her eyes dart around his face, trying to find the answer.

"Have I? Have I what?"

"Done any sort of kissing."

"Ah." He clears his throat. "No, not as it were."

"Excellent. No variables, then. Neither of us have done any sort of kissing."

"And if I had done any sort of kissing?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares down at her. "Would you have found someone else to partake in this little experiment?"

"Of course."

Sherlock grumbles under his breath and is relieved that he never gave into the advances of Nancy from his literature class.

"So here? Is here good?" she asks, glancing around the hallway.

"For kissing? No. People will be trickling out from lunch any moment now," he replies. Once again, Molly is both the smartest and the stupidest person he's ever met.

"Outside? In our tree?"

He glows warm over her choice of the word "our."

"Molly, it's been raining all day. And I have class in fifteen minutes, as do you."

"Dormitory, then. During dinner. My room's a single. I'll sneak you in."

And she turns on her heel, marching down the hallway, leaving Sherlock to somehow brave the day acting somewhat normally, despite the promise of Molly and her mouth at the end of it.

* * *

Molly is late and Sherlock pops the collar of his coat against the chill as he considers the package of cigarettes in his pocket. Smoking would do well to calm his nerves and make the waiting a bit more bearable, but Molly glares and wrinkles her nose whenever he lights up around her, and he highly doubts she would appreciate the flavor on his tongue.

For Molly – if she ever bloody well shows up – will be tasting him.

It is a fantasy, a dream, and before this afternoon Molly's reaction to anything having to do with romance was faint revulsion or total apathy. He's been in love with her from the beginning, innocent and adoring when they were children but lustful now. He long considered the best way to go about wooing Molly, but had given up all hope.

Perhaps he was right to give up all hope. She is not here, but lateness is common for Molly.

"Did you know that Professors Henrick and Collins are having an affair?" she asks the moment she rounds the corner of the building.

"No," says Sherlock, grinning at her. "How would I know that?"

"It's plain as day. Easily observable."

"May I remind you that not all of us have super powered brains." He reaches out to hold her hand because Molly is beautiful and now that he knows what it feels like to slot his fingers between hers, he fears he will never be able to stop.

Molly's expression does not change, nor has she made any eye contact as of yet, but she squeezes his hand in return.

"I think I should tell them to stop," she says.

"Stop their affair?"

"Yes."

"No."

"But Sherlock, Professor Collins is married! If his wife were to find out, she would be devastated."

"Molly, we've talked about this." Sherlock sounds disturbingly like Mycroft.

"I know, I know. Not my place," she says, pouting. "I just care too much!"

"No, no." Feeling brave, he runs his thumb over her cheekbone once more. Molly finally manages to look at him. "It's not that you care too much. Don't listen to Mycroft. He's a machine. You are brilliant and it's brilliant that you care, but you've got to learn that you can't make the world work the way you think it should. You can't save them all, Mo."

She smiles down at her feet and he feels it in his chest.

"I'll delete it," she says.

"If you think it's necessary."

"No point in keeping it if I'm not going to do anything with it," she says, waving a hand around her head. "I believe we have an appointment."

"A kissing appointment?"

"Yes." She pulls him into the dormitory. "Quickly now, Sherlock. Before dinner lets out and these halls are once more crawling with our peers."

* * *

Molly marches him into her room, slams the door behind them, and pushes him down to sit on her narrow bed. She kneels at his side, staring intently at his lips, and Sherlock doesn't have time to be nervous for Molly dives in with characteristically high levels of enthusiasm.

It is not nearly as pleasant and moving as first kisses are often depicted in films. In fact, it hurts. Molly's chin bumps his and in all likelihood it will bruise.

"Huh," Molly says, pulling back and blinking rapidly. "Well, those books are obviously exaggerating accounts. Thank you for your time, Sherlock. That will be all."

She stands, moving towards the door, but Sherlock grabs her wrists and tugs her back. With a squeak she ends up in his lap.

"That's hardly enough evidence," he says. "Shame on you, Miss Hooper. Typically you are so thorough."

"Fine," she mutters, resting her hands on his chest. She squeezes her eyes shut and puckers her lips to a humorously absurd degree.

Sherlock takes a moment to simply smile at her. She really is so perfect, his Molly, and the ridiculous expression on her face makes him soft, makes him warm. Focusing on her visage, he commits her to memory, just like this.

He presses his lips to her cheek first, lingering for a moment to smell her hair, and Molly relaxes. Her eyes stay closed, but her features smooth out.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he whispers.

"Sherlock, beauty is a social construct that—"

"Beautiful." He traces her cheekbones with his thumbs and kisses each of her closed eyelids.

Molly giggles at the contact, the sound tinkling and light. "Sherlock! You are so silly."

He finds her lips now, sweet and pert and perfect, and he decides that this is their first kiss. It is soft, slow, and just as he always imagined it would be, slight edge of tension and awkwardness and all.

For once, Molly follows his lead, opening her mouth to mimic his. She whimpers slightly and Sherlock cannot recall ever being so happy.

They compile several hours worth of data and when Sherlock leaves they both agree that they will need hours more.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

Elbows deep in a cadaver, he jerks at the sound of his name and the panic in her voice, only his years of experience of being accosted at odd times by Molly keeping him from doing serious damage to the unexamined organs still in the body.

"What's happened," he says, holding his bloodied hands up and moving to loom over her. There is no visible sign of injury but she is shaking violently.

"You weren't at the flat. I... You weren't at the flat."

"I know. Picked up a shift."

Molly nods. Making eye contact has never come easy to her, but now every few seconds she meets his gaze.

"Are you high?" he asks, voice low, serious, dangerous.

"No." He thought his question would anger her, but she answers as if she was expecting it. "I'm not. Promise, Sherlock."

He nods, believing her despite her slightly dilated eyes and the way her hands shake.

"When did you last sleep?" The bloody gloves on his hands are a curse as he desperately needs to touch her as he did after the explosion at Baker Street, simply to convince himself that she remains unscathed.

"Near on a week."

"Go lie down in my office." He sticks his hip at her and she reaches in his pocket for his keys. "I'm nearly done here."

Molly doesn't move.

"Alright?" he asks again.

She stares right at him, maintaining eye contact for a full fifteen seconds, before nodding and turning away.

As he is a professional, Sherlock really strives to do his best work with the end of this autopsy, but he ends up rushing it a bit. After scrubbing his hands, he basically sprints to his office, part of him convinced that when he arrives she will be gone.

Perhaps she is high.

Perhaps he let her go and she'll disappear into the underbelly of London, as she's done before.

Perhaps this was the last time he'll see her alive, and in a few weeks Mycroft will ring him, saying they've found her dead under a bridge.

He is sick with worry by the time he reaches his office several floors up from the mortuary, but it is all for naught. She is curled up on the loveseat. His Belstaff covers her completely, save for her head, and she stares at nothing with wide eyes.

"Molly?" He crouches in front of her and she focuses on his face immediately.

Her hand emerges from his coat and her fingertips find his cheekbones. It's been so long since she's touched him that Sherlock cannot contain the hitch in his breath as a combination of warmth and fear fills him. For a few silent moments, he allows her to explore the planes of his face with her fingers, to intently study him with all her senses.

"What happened?" he asks again when her hand drops.

"Nothing," she says, sitting up. "I don't even know what I am doing here. Stupid. Of course you are totally fine."

"I am. I'm totally fine."

"You are working." His coat is pooled in her lap and her hands fist in the fabric. "I should let you get back to it."

Never before has Molly showed any qualms about demanding his time while he works. Or while he is on dates. Or while he's doing anything, really.

Frowning, Sherlock moves from the floor to the sofa. He covers his lap with the coat as well so they are sharing it as a blanket.

"What's happened, Molly?"

"Jim from IT."

Sherlock's new work friend about the last thing he expected Molly to bring up in this moment. "Pardon?"

"He strapped a vest of semtex on John, nearly blew him up."

"Pardon!"

And then she explains the events of the pervious few days, rattling on in that detached monotone that would have him believe that she truly is a sociopath if he didn't know better. The tale she relays is horrifying as she connects Jim from IT – _Moriarty – _to the bomb threats of the past week, the murder of a TV personality, and a faker Vermeer.

"Carl Powers," she says.

"From grade school? What of him?"

"He died. We were sixteen. Do you remember?"

"Course I remember. You didn't eat for nine days."

It was her first real case, as she called it even then, and her single-minded fixation scared Sherlock. In the years since, he's seen her obsessed with a number of things - sex, heroin, murder - but at sixteen he could not understand how she could be so consumed with the drowning of their classmate.

Carl Powers was a shit, plain and simple. He taunted Molly and more than once Sherlock very nearly punched him for it, but his death left their whole class shaken.

Except for Molly.

Her fixation was on the circumstance and she did not appear to feel even a twinge of sadness at his passing. It was as if the moment helping him was no longer even a possibility, she stopped caring.

Still, when she insisted that Carl Powers was murdered, providing his missing shoes as evidence, Sherlock believed her.

"The shoes," Sherlock says, shocked. "You had them in the lab and they…"

"Belonged to Carl Powers," she finishes. "_Clostridium botulinum. _It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet. Introduced into his eczema medication. Explains the fit in the pool."

Sherlock needs a moment to absorb all this and Molly does not remove his arm when he loops it around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest.

"But we didn't go to school with him," he says, "With Jim. I would have remembered his face."

"No, he did not attend school with us. I've been looking into how he knew Carl. And he did know him, said that Carl laughed at him, so he stopped his laughing. Said that Carl was mean."

"Well, that's not exactly inaccurate."

"No, it isn't."

After several long moments spent in silence, Molly relaxes into his side, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. He presses his lips to the top of her head and she stops trembling.

He wants to ask her why she tore into his mortuary, flying into a panic when she was unable to locate him at his flat. He wants her to say the words, wants to hear that after seeing John with a vest of explosives she needed to see Sherlock safe too. She was worried about him because she cares, because he is important.

Instead he drops a final kiss to her forehead and pulls back. He crosses the room to his desk, opening a drawer and retrieving a sandwich. He hands it to Molly.

"Eat," he instructs.

"What is it?" she asks, removing the sandwich from it's wrapping and sniffing it.

"Ham."

She devours it in less than five bites.

"Do you want to go back to mine? Sleep it off," he suggests.

She shakes her head, already lying back down and covering herself with his Belstaff.

* * *

When he finishes his shift seven hours later, she is still asleep in his office. He wakes her gently and pulls on his coat. On the way to his flat, they stop for fish and chips. He lets her eat half of his, knowing full well that he'll need a whole second meal once they get home.

They walk in silence, but Molly stays closer than she normally would. It is not often that Molly gets rattled, but the incident with John and the explosives has her reacting like a typical person would. She is shaken and the man responsible is still at large.

At the thought Sherlock is no longer hungry.

He gets his front door open and holds it for Molly to pass. Once inside he throws all the locks she herself installed when they first moved in. It makes him feel fractionally safer, but Jim from IT has Sherlock thoroughly shaken as well.

Molly's already disappeared upstairs and he follows, planning on retrieving his violin from his room to play a bit. She likes that, prefers his music over the other mindless activities available to them in his home - telly, movies, and the like.

The moment he steps through the threshold of his room, Molly is on him, pushing him back to the bed with all that hidden strength of hers. In his shock, Sherlock falls back to the mattress, bouncing once before Molly straddles his waist. She pulls hideous jumper number five - the one with the cherries - over her head, leaving her in only a serviceable black bra.

Sherlock reaches up to pull the tie from her hair and it falls in a curtain around them.

The sight is achingly familiar and it's been so long since this was anything but a fantasy, a dream. She's not allowed him to touch her like this - his hands on the lean expanse of her abdomen – or see her likes his – staring at her chest and her eyes and her mouth and then back to her eyes - in near a decade, not since her father died and she started using heroin instead of Sherlock to calm the constant buzz of activity in her brain.

Deft fingers pop the buttons of his white shirt, and he sits up, allowing her to push shirt and blazer from his shoulders in one irritating mass. These clothes are tossed to the floor also.

Molly is as beautiful as she's always been, perhaps more so. He is rather stunned stupid from her beauty and he cannot determine if this is due to any changes in her physical form or if the time spent apart has made her brighter and him more in awe.

The woman atop him seems equally enraptured and her small, capable hands roam his chest, his arms, his shoulders. He is certainly more muscular than he was at twenty-three, although he remains lean and unimpressive.

Except Molly does not appear to find him unimpressive.

He wonders for a brief moment if she's done this with anyone else, if she has ever had another bare and vulnerable beneath her, totally at her mercy. It seems impossible given that the only human she's shown much interest in since getting clean is a homosexual doctor who seems to prefer one night stands to messy emotional entanglements, but Sherlock still has no idea what she got up to when she spent nearly all her time high.

Molly continues to catalog his body, rememorizing him with eyes and hands. When that exploration proves insufficient, she uses her mouth – lips, tongue, teeth. He closes his eyes and runs his hands through her silky hair, trying not to think on how very painful this will all become in the morning when he inevitably wakes alone.

Not thinking becomes decidedly easier when Molly's lips finally find his. Her taste proves his memory inferior and he groans into the kiss, reaching up to cradle her face between his hands. Above him Molly is shaking again, her fingers digging into his wrists. She is desperate at first, attempting to consume him with needy violence, but eventually she calms somewhat, her hands once again roaming his skin. Her nails leave behind red rivets at his wrists, her grip on him so tight she breaks skin, but he feels no pain, only heat and Molly.

He rids her of her bra, marveling at the smooth expanse of her back. When his hands find her breasts, Molly leans forward into his touch.

"Molly." He groans and then she is kissing him again, whimpering into his mouth and making him ache.

She rolls her hips over his erection and Sherlock wants to take up residence in this moment, to never let her leave.

But then she pulls away.

With a growl of frustration, Molly stands up fully on the mattress. She struggles to strip her tight black trousers. He sits up to assist and she balances herself with hands on his shoulders as he removes the remainder of her clothes. For a few moments she stands naked and glorious before him and breathing becomes nearly impossible but then in a blink she is lying flat on her back at his side.

He raises a questioning eyebrow, glancing down at her.

"I want, I need..." She waves her hands at her chest. "Your weight, Sherlock. Please."

It is a rare, genuine _please._

Smirking at her, Sherlock wiggles out of his own trousers and then promptly falls upon her, following her instructions too literally and thoroughly crushing her slight body beneath him.

"Sherlock!" she admonishes, freeing her hands to slap at his back.

But then she laughs, bright and free.

It is such a rare sound and throughout his youth Sherlock prided himself on his ability to make Molly Hooper really, truly laugh.

She kisses him again, fingers back in his curls, and there is joy in this now, where there was only desperation before. He can feel her smile against his lips.

His hand is between her legs and he could never forget this. As much as he's attempted – and failed spectacularly – to purge Molly from his system, he could never forget how to touch her, how to make her moan and writhe and demand more.

With his last bit of coherence he manages to locate a condom from his bedside drawer.

"Hurry," she whispers. "Sherlock, hurry."

He does. And it feels like coming home.

* * *

She wakes him twice more throughout the night, once with her mouth, once straddling his hips again, but in the morning he opens his eyes to find an empty bed, as predicted.

The accuracy of his foresight does not make the reality any less painful.

* * *

It takes very little time for Molly to escalate their "experiments."

After a month of spending a significant amount of time kissing her, Sherlock is forced to schedule such sessions around studying, for Molly completely loses interest in school. He barters two hours of study for half an hour of snogging, until one day Sherlock enters her room, arms laden with books, to find her laid out flat on her back, completely naked.

Sherlock promptly drops all the books.

"Finally!" she says, huffing with exasperation. She sits up on her elbows to scowl at him. "You're late and I've been waiting forever."

Sherlock is forced to clear his throat no less than three times and he gives up pretending not to stare blatantly.

"Well if I knew you'd be naked, I'd have hurried."

"That's offensive, Sherlock. Is it only this ridiculous body that merely serves for transport of my mind that interests you?"

Perhaps if his mind were currently functioning he'd laugh and roll his eyes. As it is, he can do nothing but continue his gaping.

Molly sighs. "Really, Sherlock. It's just transport."

He snorts.

"Come here, you silly boy," she says, lying flat once more. "It's time we changed the experiment, don't you think?"

He trips twice in his haste to get to her. This might have something to do with the speed at which he attempts to strip his uniform.

Molly does a lot of ogling herself, considering it's just transport.

* * *

**Everyone is so lovely! I'm glad all you all are enjoying this. Seriously, you are wonderful for reading.**

**Also, there is dialog right out of the show that I obviously did not write and unfortunately do not own.**

**Beta: Monica, aka mattressesflollop**

**And hey! I have a tumblr: .com**


	4. A Scandal in Belgravia

**Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia**

After _the_ _incident_, Molly disappears, not from London but certainly from Sherlock's life. He keeps up with her staggering caseload through Dr. John's blog and occasionally catches a glimpse of her at Bart's, but she does not linger. Nor does she look at him when John or Mary pause to chat.

One lazy Sunday he retrieves his morning paper only to see Molly glaring up at him from the front page. She wears a ridiculous hat and is very obviously unhappy to be caught on camera.

It becomes a common occurrence, Molly appearing in the papers. Sometimes he crumples her image in his hand, tossing the pictures in his fireplace or waste bin. Mostly he is equal parts hurt and relieved. Seeing her in the press is not pleasant, but at least he can be sure that she is alive and breathing.

In the months between _the incident _and Christmas, Sherlock goes on three dates with three perfectly lovely women. He does not call them back, but simply taking them to dinner is enough to keep Mycroft from accusing him of _pining_.

He gets drinks with Mike Stamford and Mary Morstan. He devotes hours of his free time to his violin. He places his monthly phone call to Mummy and completes postmortem after postmortem.

All in all, _the incident_ does nothing to change his life, but Molly's effectively ripped open old wounds. They never healed in the first place – he doubts they ever will – but now they feel fresh as they day she told him "caring is not an advantage" and then abruptly stopped doing so.

He braves the wet and the cold to do a bit of Christmas shopping and runs into Molly's doctor and her Detective Inspector outside Bart's.

"Sherlock!" says John. Sherlock wonders if the good doctor will ever be able to refrain from blushing when they speak. "Happy Christmas. Are you coming to our little holiday party?"

"Holiday party?"

"At Baker Street."

"You and Molly are having a holiday party at Baker Street?" he asks, disbelieving.

"Well, Molly isn't particularly keen on the idea but I want to see everyone before heading off to the country to visit Harry. I told her to invite you," he continues, searching Sherlock's face. It is apparently clear that she failed to follow this direction. "But you know Molly." He shrugs and winces.

"Indeed I do."

"So will you come? It's this Friday."

"I don't think—"

"You're coming," says Mary. "Of course you're coming. I need someone to get pissed with."

He considers for a moment. Molly surely doesn't want him there, but he's done nothing wrong. It was her that pushed him into bed, stripped naked, and said "hurry, Sherlock. Hurry." This was her folly and although Sherlock was a willing participant, he will not be made invisible any longer.

"I'll be there," he says.

* * *

Molly glances at him briefly, narrowed eyes darting from his face to his bag of presents, as he removes his coat before she turns back to her laptop and starts bickering with John over his blog.

Sherlock is resolved to have a pleasant evening despite her.

Or perhaps to spite her.

"Can I get you a drink, Sherlock?" asks Mary, her hand on his shoulder.

"That'd be lovely. Whatever you are having is fine."

"Wine," says Molly, without looking up. "Sherlock is utterly devoted to his wine. Red. The Pinot Noir."

Mary glances at Sherlock, raising a single eyebrow. He takes a break from scowling at the back of Molly's head to nod to the DI. She moves to the kitchen and all the alcohol laid out on the table.

"How's the hip, Mrs. Hudson?" he asks the landlady for lack of anything better to do.

"Oh, it's atrocious. But thanks for asking."

"Well, I've seen much worse," he says, accepting the glass from Mary. He lifts the glass it in thanks. "But then I do post mortems."

Mary snorts into her drink and Sherlock is pleased that at least one person finds him entertaining.

"Don't make jokes, Sherlock," snaps Molly.

Once upon a time, Molly also found him entertaining.

"Oh, sorry." He glares and gives her a mocking bow, voice reeking of sarcasm. "Please accept my deepest and most sincere apologies."

Molly goes back to ignoring him.

There is a bit of awkward silence that Sherlock feels compelled to fill. "So, John. When are you off to see your sister?"

"In the morning," replies the doctor. He sits on the back of a chair behind a thin, dark-haired man Sherlock met last week over drinks. Despite this, he cannot recall John's boyfriend's name. "First time ever she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."

"Nope," says Molly.

"Shut up, _Molly_," replies the doctor.

Sherlock is beginning to regret his decision to attend this event.

"I see you've got a new girlfriend, Sherlock," Molly says without looking away from John's laptop. "And you're serious about her."

"Sorry." Sherlock blinks at her. "What?"

"In fact you are seeing her this very night. And you are giving her a gift."

Understanding what she's getting at, Sherlock smirks and sips his wine, perfectly pleased to stand back and allow Molly to make an utter arse of herself. "Am I?"

"Take a day off," John mutters.

"Shut up and have a drink." Mary even delivers her one, but Molly will not be deterred.

"Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag." She gets to her feet and Sherlock simply sips his wine as she approaches. "Perfectly wrapped. With a bow! All the others are a slapdash, at best."

This is wholly accurate for the others he purchased only after deciding to attend the party, to make it seem less odd when he left a gift for Molly.

"So something special, then," she says. Her smile is that overly bright, false bit of cheer that Sherlock loathes. "The shade of purple echoes his shirt, an unconscious association or one that he's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Mr. Holmes has _love_ on the mind. The fact that he's serious about her is clear from the fact that he's giving her a gift at all. That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn."

That last bit did actually hurt. Sherlock finishes his wine.

"And the fact that he's seeing her tonight is evident from the product in his hair and what he's wearing, obviously trying to compensate for the length of his face…" She trails off as she picks up the gift in question to see her name on the card.

The silence is much more uncomfortable this time around and Sherlock simply shakes his head, moving to the kitchen for a refill of wine. Molly is looking directly at him when he returns a moment later.

"It's for me," she murmurs.

"Of course it's for you," he replies, glaring.

"Why would you give this to me here?" she demands, suddenly as angry as he is. "Why not at home?"

"Wait. Sorry. At home?" asks John. "Whose home?"

"I haven't seen you for months!" All plans to remain calm and unaffected evaporate as he looms over her. She lifts her chin in defiance and returns his scowl. "How was I to know you were even planning on coming to Christmas?"

"I always come to Christmas!"

"Not always."

Molly winces and looks away. Referencing her period of drug abuse was a low blow given that this will be her sixth sober Christmas.

"I'm coming home for Christmas," she murmurs. "Give it to me then."

"Whose home?" John demands again.

Molly ignores him, too busy returning the gift to Sherlock's bag, leaving it as she found it.

"The Holmes Estate," Sherlock replies.

"Why would Molly go there?"

"She essentially grew up on the property, John, and spent many holidays there even before her father passed. Didn't you ever wonder how she knew Mycroft? Why my brother has always felt so comfortable doling out orders?" Sherlock asks.

John looks thoroughly gob smacked. "So… you've known each other how long?"

"Decades, John. Do keep up." Molly is standing before Sherlock again, looking soft and sorry.

He regards her warily.

"I'm sorry." Her hands are on the lapels of his jacket. There is panic in her voice. "Forgive me? Sherlock, forgive me."

Because he is pathetic, Sherlock nods.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes." She pulls on his jacket and he ducks his head, closing his eyes as she kisses the corner of his mouth. She lingers longer than is decent given their company, and he pushes his fingers through her hair, seizing the opportunity as she is wearing it down for once.

And then there is a sound. A distinctly feminine and orgasmic sound that has Molly squeaking and jumping away from him.

"Well, it wasn't me," Sherlock says for the benefit of everyone who is staring. The noise was feminine, but certainly does not belong to Molly. Sherlock would know.

"It was me," she says, digging around in her pocket.

"Was it really?" asks Mary, soundly completely fascinated.

"No it wasn't," Sherlock insists. He knows all of Molly's sounds. That was not one of them.

"My phone." She gives them all that look as if she is offended by their collective ignorance as she brandishes the device in question.

"Fifty-seven," says John.

"I'm sorry. What?" asks Molly, obviously distracted by whatever is happening on her screen.

"Fifty-seven of those texts. And those are only the ones I've heard."

Sherlock is suddenly jealous. Very Jealous.

"You've been counting?" Molly is fixated on the mantelpiece and she moves to stand before to stare at it better. She locates a bright red package and promptly excuses herself.

Yes, Sherlock is suddenly very jealous indeed.

* * *

"What are we, Mo?" He lies across the bench seat, his head in her lap, eyes closed. With the train rocking him and Molly's fingers carding through his hair, he could fall asleep with great ease but he fights the instinct, needing to have the answer before they arrive home where his brother will know the instant he lays eyes on them that something has changed in these last months.

"Carbon based life forms, homo sapiens. Surely, you know this Sherlock. You plan to study anatomy at uni!"

Her deep incredulity has him grinning. "No, Molly. I mean us. You and me. What are we? How would you define our relationship?"

"Oh."

Beneath his head, he feels her tense, her fingers faltering in their steady combing of his dark curls.

She does this often. Says it helps her think.

The relaxation of a moment before is gone and he opens one eye with great trepidation to check her facial expressions. Her brow is furrowed, lips puckered. With her free hand she taps her chin. It is her familiar look of deep thought. She's retreated to her Mind Palace and there she will stay as she sorts through all she's cataloged on relationships and the like.

Given Molly's struggle with socializing, it probably will not be long, but to Sherlock the wait is excruciating.

He should have said nothing. Now she will realize all the hours she's wasted above him, below him, in bed, and she will end it immediately. He should have gone on forever not saying anything, enjoying her.

She is everything he's ever wanted and now he's gone and ruined it.

"Sexual... partners?" she finally ventures. She blinks down at him. It is not often Molly appears confused and the wary expression on her face is endearing.

"Oh, is that all?" he asks, smirking only slightly.

"Not good?"

"Could be better."

"You object to the term sexual partners to describe 'us' because it reduces our relationship to intercourse only and fails to take into account our history as close companions. Such a title removes sentiment."

"Correct as usual, Miss Hooper." He grins up at her and beneath his head she jiggles her knee, a sure sign that if not for their current location in a narrow train car, she would be up and pacing.

"Lovers is certainly more intimate, but you will object to this also, on the grounds that we are young and this term sounds like something out of a classic work of literature or divorce court."

Sherlock laughs and despite her current focus, the corner of her lips twitches up into a slight smile.

"We take nearly all our meals together," she continues, "but these can hardly be considered dates as they are consumed in the cafeteria. Still, several weeks ago you forced me to the cinema for a movie and paid for my ticket. This could easily be considered a date."

"Very good, Molly."

"We've discussed attending uni together and although this was based on shared interests, friendship, and Mycroft's near constant worry for us both, since we took up copulating on a regular basis, the decision to remain together takes on new meaning."

"And based on all this, what do you conclude?" he asks.

"I am... Am I your girlfriend, Sherlock?" Molly's cheeks turn pink. Her blush is absolutely unprecedented and it did not occur even when she asked him to kiss her as part of an experiment or when she stripped totally naked before him for the first time.

"Do you want to be my girlfriend, Molly?"

"I do want you to be my boyfriend, I think. Yes, I do. Nothing else makes sense."

Delighted, Sherlock laughs and then rears up, kissing her soundly. Molly sighs against his lips, her fingers once more tangling in his hair.

"Do we have to tell Mycroft?" she asks.

"Must you mention Mycroft in between kisses?"

"Really, Sherlock."

"We do not have to tell anyone. In fact, refusing to give Mycroft any details will annoy him endlessly."

"Excellent. Although he'll figure it out anyway. Right away, I would imagine."

The rest of the trip passes quickly as they keep themselves occupied with more snogging.

When they emerge on the platform, rumpled and red faced and grinning, Mycroft takes one look at them, grimaces, shakes his head, and mutters, "bloody hell."

"Happy Christmas, Mycroft," replies Molly. "Did you really get me books again? Not very creative, are you. I am a girl, you know. Maybe I want a spot of jewelry. That was a joke, Mycroft. Do not buy me jewelry. I have no interest."

* * *

After the Christmas autopsy – of a woman that Molly identified despite her missing face – Sherlock finds Mycroft in the hallway outside the mortuary. Without a word his brother extends a cigarette.

"Just the one," Sherlock says. "This is highly illegal."

"We're in a morgue," says Mycroft. "There is only so much damage one can do."

He inhales deeply, groaning on the exhale. "I've quit," he says.

"Apparently."

"You wanted me to see that," Sherlock says, waving his hand at the door.

"It's not healthy, your continued fixation on Molly. She's obviously moved on and you need to as well."

"So Molly was with the woman on my table? As in… truly _with_ her, with her? The one without a face?" Sherlock asks. He struggles to hide the depth of his displeasure from his brother and then gives up the game, smoking in earnest now.

"Not in the strictest sense," replies Mycroft. "But Molly… cared. That much at least is obvious."

Sherlock inhales more deeply this time. It feels like a physical blow, worse than a physical blow. There is little/nothing (missing word) he could hear from Mycroft that would prove more painful. It's been ages since Molly cared. It started with John but this is a different matter entirely.

The last time Molly lost someone she cared for, they nearly lost her. In many ways Sherlock did lose her.

He finishes the cigarette, puts it out on the bottom of his shoe, and takes another from his brother.

"You better call John," says Sherlock.

"She's on her way," says Mycroft a moment later when he gets the doctor on the line. "Have you found anything?"

"No." John's voice is muffled but Sherlock is standing close enough to hear the other end of the conversation. "Well, it looks like she's clean. We've tried all the usual hiding places. Are you sure tonight is a danger night?"

Sherlock blows out more smoke into his mortuary, watching it dance in the dim light.

"No, but then I never am. You have to stay with her, John."

"I've got plans."

"No," says Mycroft.

"I'll pick her up in the morning," says Sherlock. "She's planning on coming with us to Mummy's. I'll be there in the morning."

* * *

When he gets to Baker Street in the morning he hears Molly muttering in the kitchen, but John stops him in the entryway before Sherlock can see her.

"Listen, has she ever had a girlfriend or boyfriend? Any sort of relationship ever?"

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and raises a single questioning eyebrow. "In a manner of speaking."

"And when it ended?"

"The beginning of her descent into the world of narcotics," Sherlock answers. "Although that might be better explained by the sudden death of her father."

John nods. "Molly? Sherlock is here. Are you all packed?"

"Yes," she says, appearing in a black jumper, monstrous orange pajama pants, and the red leather jacket. Toby is content, cradled in her arms. "Let's go."

"Where's your bag?" asks John.

Molly jiggles Toby.

"You'll be gone for the next few days. Till New Years."

"I'll steal Sherlock's things. It's fine." She hands over Toby and the cat immediately starts to purr in Sherlock's arms.

John is stunned silent again, as Toby's hate for all people not Molly is somewhat legendary.

"I'm assuming Mycroft got us a car due to my supposed emotional upheaval," she asks.

Sherlock nods.

"Excellent. No need to force Toby into the carrier. No need for you to be ashamed to be seen with me in these pants. Goodbye, John. I'll be back for the New Year, apparently."

* * *

"Molly, dear, come sit with me." Violet Holmes beckons from the sofa by the fire, arms wide, smile adoring.

At the sound of her name Molly jerks from her position at the window where she was intently staring out into the dark at nothing. She's been disturbingly quiet, from the car ride through dinner and now.

Still, when Mummy calls, Molly dutifully shuffles across the room to join her on the sofa.

"There is my best girl," says Mummy, getting her arms around Molly. She stays tense for a moment until Mummy strokes her hair and Molly leans into her side, closing her eyes.

Although Mummy was not thrilled by his relationship with Molly, since the break up and her sobriety, she has gone back to doting on Molly, as she did when they were children.

When the concert violinist was home, anyway.

The whole scene distracts Sherlock, and when he looks back to the puzzle he was working on with his brother, it is nearly completed.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock snaps. "You promised to go slow!"

"This was painfully slow," he drawls in reply, sounding bored. "You picked a stunningly easy one this year, brother-mine."

"It is 5000 pieces of solid blue!"

"Not solid." And Mycroft adds the final piece.

Sherlock slumps back in his chair. "Why do I put up with this? Every Christmas. All I want is to sit by a fire and do a puzzle. Not blink to see you've finished!"

"I think you got a total of nine pieces this year. Good show."

"Mycroft!"

"You always get so delightfully angry. This is one tradition I would never give up."

"It wouldn't be Christmas without these two sniping at each other, now would it, Molly?" murmurs Mummy.

Molly hums her agreement as Mummy begins to braid Molly's hair.

"You've been awfully quiet this year. No deductions of all the presents under the tree, no case distracting you. Is everything all right?" asks Mummy.

Sherlock wants a real answer and is desperate to know just who the faceless woman on his table was to Molly. The so-called emotionless detective is grieving and Sherlock would be there for her, if only he knew how, if only he was not too wrapped up in his own jealousy over a dead woman.

"Just tired, Violet," she replies. "That's all. I'm tired."

"Ah, well. Understandable. All those cases."

"How do you know about all that?"

"I read the blog, of course."

Molly huffs, but does not pull away.

* * *

Dr. George Hooper likes the company of Mycroft more than he does that of his own daughter. It is the only reason he agrees to venture to the big house for Christmas. On ordinary days, he is a hopeless homebody, utterly devoted to his small cottage and adjoining practice.

As is typical, he ignores his daughter in favor of discussing politics and local gossip with Mycroft. Molly seems to not notice her father's indifference, but Sherlock knows better.

Perhaps after all these years of being forgotten, Molly is simply used to it.

George Hooper did not want children. It was one of many reasons his marriage to Margo Hooper ended. Her alcoholism certainly played a large role in the separation and the divorce was so painful that Margo neglected to mention her pregnancy.

Ever.

George only found out about Molly after Margo's death. He only agreed to take her after extensive DNA testing to prove her truly his.

Still, after all these years, George remains wholly uninterested in his brilliant daughter. He barely cared when she was failing out of the local school nor does he do more than grunt in acknowledgment when Molly attempts to show him her perfect marks now. He did not hug her or express any sort of pride when she aced her A levels and got accept to university.

Sherlock is not fond of George in the slightest and it is painful to see Molly try so hard. He sometimes wonders what would have become of Molly if she never met the Holmes brothers. She would have no one, no Sherlock to be her friend and no Mycroft to be her councilor, just a dead mother, a neglectful father, and peers who taunt her.

"The chemistry of cooking is rather fascinating," Molly says. She sits on the kitchen counter, eating walnuts and watching Sherlock prepare Christmas dinner. "And you are so very attractive like this, working away over supper."

"Oh am I?" He washes his hands. There is little to do now but wait for their meal to cook.

"You should roll your sleeves up more often," she says, swinging her feet as she pops another nut in her mouth. "I find myself aroused by your forearms."

Sherlock laughs and moves to stand between her knees. He waves his forearms in front of her face, hamming it up and generally acting with an excess of silliness.

"Sherlock!" Molly shrieks as he runs a forearm under her nose. "You're ruining it. You're ruining it!"

She giggles, the sound sweet and appealing. It almost keeps him from kissing her, for he enjoys hearing it so, but not quite. She loops her arms around his neck as she sighs into the kiss. With hands on her hips, he slides her closer.

Molly is warm. She's here and his. Kissing her is the one thing that matters. Mummy's absence and George's indifference are nothing as long as Molly wants him.

"Ah hem."

The sound of his brother's irritated little throat clear, Sherlock frowns and removes his lips from Molly's. They both turn to glower at Mycroft. He studies the handle of his umbrella.

"This little... affair has gotten no less disgusting since you informed me of your relationship last Christmas," he says.

"We told you nothing," says Sherlock. "You _observed_."

"Oh, you've offended him, Mycroft," Molly says, fiddling with his curls. "It's your use of the term affair, no doubt. He prefers the term dating, delightful fellow he is. Isn't he adorable when he's cranky?"

Her words thoroughly annoy both Holmes brothers and she cackles with unrestrained glee.

"Regardless," says Mycroft. "You might want to refrain from gratuitous displays of affection in the presence of George or he may not allow Molly to spend the night. Now, come. Be sociable."

* * *

Around her father, Molly makes herself small.

When they were young, other children – with their cruelty and taunting and hate for anything different – Molly would shrink behind him, choosing to remain silent rather than say the wrong thing. It is a habit she thankfully outgrew, but after years of trying so desperately to make her father love her as she loves him, Molly remains conditioned to be small in George's presence.

After they finish the meal – one of the best Sherlock's ever created and he is immensely satisfied with his effort – they linger at the table, drinking and chatting. In the chair next to him, Molly sits straight-backed and uncomfortable, her hands folded in her lap. She wears a fitted red dress, a gift from Mycroft last Christmas and his brother's latest attempt to get Molly to "dress like a lady." She's beautiful and uncomfortable. Sherlock finds himself missing her hideous jumpers despite the way they disguised her curves.

At some point in the evening she tucked a poinsettia behind her ear. It is bright and festive, like Molly when her father is not around.

Sherlock is feeling lazy and warm, a result of the wine, the holiday, and Molly at his side. He flashes her a small smile and Molly relaxes, reaching out for her own drink.

"So," says Mycroft. "One semester in and you are both shining stars of the university. I recently spoke to Professor Thomas about you, Molly."

"Really?" she asks, tense all over again. Under the table, Sherlock squeezes her knee and she latches on to his hand. "I know I answer too many questions and ask too many questions. I'll be quiet next semester, if he'll just let me stay in his class. And I'll stop sneaking into his lab after hours."

"No," says Mycroft, frowning. "It's quite the opposite of all that, my dear. He just raved about you. I believe the term he used was chemistry prodigy."

"Oh," she says, slumping against the back of her chair.

"If you continue to take an interest in chemistry, I imagine he'll take you on as a research assistant. Have you considered getting your degree in this field?" asks Mycroft.

"Well, I always thought I would study medicine, like Sherlock, but I loathe the anatomy professor. He's boring, boring, boring."

"Think it over," Mycroft says. "You must be very proud, George. Molly received perfect marks. Even in astronomy, and we all know how she feels about that subject."

"Deleted it," Molly mumbles.

"Oh." George blinks, as if he is surprised to be included in the conversation regarding his daughter's education. "Right. Yes, of course."

Molly looks too hopeful, perking up and needing just the hint of praise.

"Anatomy is a worthy field of study," George continues. "You'll go far."

Molly makes herself small again.

"Chemistry is no less worthy, surely," says Mycroft, turning his nose up slightly at Molly's father. Although he is more subtle and political about it than Sherlock, Mycroft resents George Hooper just as thoroughly.

"Of course, of course. Well, I really should be going," George says, abruptly.

"But, there's still dessert," Molly says, desperately. "I made pecan pie. I know it's your favorite. Well, Sherlock mostly made it but I directed and I'm sure it is delicious. Right, Sherlock?"

"It's perfect," Sherlock agrees.

"No, no." George rises from his seat and finishes off his port. "Couldn't possibly eat another bit. Thank you for dinner. Happy Christmas."

And then he's gone.

At his side, Molly is defeated and disheartened.

"I am sure there are parents in the world somewhere that are not such a constant disappointment to their children," Mycroft muses. "But we three have yet to meet them."

Molly stares down at her lap and Sherlock leans over, taking her face between his hands. "You, Miss Molly Hooper, are brilliant," he murmurs. "I love you and there is nothing you could do to change that."

Molly smiles and kisses him back until Mycroft's "ah hem" interrupts.

"I, for one, am dying to taste this perfect pecan pie," he says. "Now, if you two could please refrain from spoiling my appetite further, let's bring it out."

* * *

Late in the night, Sherlock wakes alone. It is a rare occurrence. At school, he spends the majority of his nights with Molly in her room. His roommate often jokes about Sherlock's absence, calling him a ghost. Since their return home for holiday, Molly's stayed with Sherlock as her father neither notices or cares.

But now he is alone.

The sheets beside him are warm and there is a faint glow coming from his balcony, like the end of a cigarette flaring bright on the inhale.

He locates slippers and a hooded sweatshirt before joining her. She says nothing as he slides onto the bench at the side, but silently hands him the spliff.

"You know I prefer cigarettes to marijuana," he says before inhaling deeply. Smoke burns his throat and he holds it in his lungs for as long as he's able before releasing a great puff into the cold night air.

"I hate cigarettes," she says. "I hate the way you taste when you smoke cigarettes."

"Yes, yes. I've quit."

"Would you like me to list your 'secret' hiding places?"

"No need to show off."

She frowns and takes the spliff. "At school I often get a accused of showing off."

"Molly, I didn't mean—"

"I know. It's all right, Sherlock. And it's all right that you hate my father."

"Hate may be too strong a description."

Molly snorts.

They silently pass and puff the spliff until it's gone. Molly pulls the sleeves of hideous jumper number three – the one with Father Christmas on the front – over her hands.

"Caring is not an advantage," she whispers.

"Of course it is," Sherlock says, hating his brother a bit for putting that in her head when they were still children. It was meant to ease Molly's woes when the other children mocked her, but now the mantra seems dangerous.

"If I didn't care about my father than it wouldn't matter," she says. "The way he is shouldn't matter."

He wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss into her temple. Molly turns, offering her mouth. He kisses her until the cold has Molly shaking. He carries her to bed, continuing to kiss her newly exposed skin as he peels layers of clothes from her tiny, perfect body.

He settles with his mouth between her legs and Molly is shaking again, Sherlock's doing now rather than the cold.

* * *

Between Christmas and spring, he sees her only once when she takes over the lab to x-ray a camera phone. The whole thing is undeniably odd and despite Sherlock's many questions, he learns little.

He wonders if she grieves still, if she loved the faceless woman, and occasionally gets a glimpse of her bright wardrobe in the lab, always fleeing just before he can speak with her. When he pulls out a cadaver for her to examine, she is mostly silent and professional, allowing John and Mary to hold up the conversation.

And he misses her. Reading John's blog is not substitute for Molly recounting a case in colorful language and general annoyance with everyone involved.

On a strangely hot day in the beginning of June, Sherlock returns home to find Molly sprawled out on his couch, asleep. To combat the heat she's discarded her bomber jacket and jumper, leaving her only in a camisole and tight back trousers. Her feet are bare and she is face down in a pillow, a knapsack sitting at her side.

Sherlock stares at her for a moment to ensure that she's breathing before he goes to wash the morgue off him.

He has nearly finished preparing supper when Molly stirs, yawns, and stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She pulls herself up onto a counter, crossing her legs beneath her.

"Going somewhere?" he asks, nodding at her luggage.

"No," she replies, pulling the tie from her hair and combing out her locks with her fingers. "Returning."

"Big case?"

"Jetlag," she says through another yawn. "Any chance that you're preparing enough for two?"

Sherlock grins as he dishes out two plates, hoping that they can now return to a bit of normalcy.

* * *

**Betaed by Monica! **


	5. The Hounds of Baskerville

**Chapter 9: The Hounds of Baskerville**

Sherlock steps through the door of his flat after a long shift at Bart's. His back aches from leaning over cadaver after cadaver, and he wants nothing more than take-away, a shower, and a book: something far removed from reality that takes very little brain power to rip through.

Toby greets him at the door, rubbing up against his leg and regarding him with big green eyes.

"Hello," Sherlock says, bending to pick up the cat. He purrs immediately. "Molly!" he calls out.

"Kitchen!"

She is sipping tea with Doctor John, sitting atop his counter and wearing the red bomber jacket over hideous jumper number five, the one with the cherries.

The sight of Molly in his home became normal once more after the death of The Woman. In the year since _the_ _incident_, they've once more settled into the easy friendship they shared before.

Although she makes frequent use of the key she still has on her ring, this is the first time she's brought John Watson along on one of her little visits.

"Oh, this is your place, Sherlock," says John. "That's a relief."

"Who did you think lived here?" he asks, scratching Toby's chin, much to the cat's delight.

"Dunno. Molly said it was her cat sitter. And that's amazing. I thought Toby hated everyone but Molly," says John.

"Toby loves Sherlock," Molly says. "As Sherlock raised Toby whilst I was in rehab. He was a kitten at the time. Very small."

John clears his throat. "Ah."

"So what's going on?" Sherlock asks.

Molly slips off the counter and hands Sherlock her half-empty mug. "Case," she says.

"Where are you off to?"

"The country, somewhere with moors for something involving a monstrous, genetically mutated hound. All and all, not an ideal location for a house cat."

Sherlock snorts. "Of course."

"I suggested we have Mrs. Hudson come feed him," says John.

"She's not our housekeeper," says Molly.

"And Toby hates Mrs. Hudson as he hates most people," John finishes. "So I hope this isn't too much of a bother."

Toby is still cradled like an infant to Sherlock's chest and he smiles down at the creature fondly.

"Look at them, John," says Molly gesturing wildly and bouncing in place. "Do either of them look bothered? I'm sure Sherlock would prefer I leave Toby here on a permanent basis. And here I thought your observational skills were improving."

John lets out a long-suffering sigh.

"How long will you be gone then?" asks Sherlock.

"Soon as I solve the case," says Molly. "Shouldn't be more than a day or two."

"Only a day or two for giant, genetically mutated hounds?" asks Sherlock, sipping at Molly's tepid tea.

"I'm rather good at this. Haven't you heard? Come now, John. Off we go."

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to come with?" He zips his best suit - navy blue, three pieces, from Mycroft - into a bag, pressed up against his tuxedo. He'll need both for the coming five days.

He turns to look at Molly. She sits in the exact center of their bed, legs crossed beneath her, tapping her chin.

"Molly," he repeats.

She is deep within her Mind Palace and Sherlock gives up trying the reach her, choosing instead to complete his packing. Although he has no particular desire to go away to London for Mummy and her symphony and her birthday, she insisted.

It will be a parade of dull conversation and pretentious gatherings.

Mycroft will fit right in.

The whole thing would be made bearable by Molly's presence at his side. Her scathing commentary would be hilarious, but Mummy would inevitably become embarrassed and then Molly would feel bad, so all-in-all her decision to stay home is probably for the best.

But he will miss her so.

He's finished with his luggage and in the kitchen, preparing a snack for the train when Molly emerges.

"Sherlock?"

"Kitchen!"

She shuffles in a moment later, wrapping her arms around his waist and slipping her hands under his t-shirt.

"You didn't get me a pen."

"You didn't ask for a pen."

Molly starts to sway, bringing him along with her. Her thumb brushes his nipple while her other hand trails down his stomach to the clasp of his trousers. Removing her hands would be the prudent course of action as he has a train to catch, but instead he continues to sway with his Molly. She is warm at his back, sweet and initiating contact (usually she leaves it to him) and he'll recount this moment frequently over the next few lonely days.

"I think I should punish you," she says. "For failing to deliver a pen I did not verbally request."

Sherlock turns to face her and rolls his eyes. "I've a train to catch."

"That's not until this afternoon."

He nods towards the clock and Molly's face falls.

"Oh, well _shit_," she says.

"When I get back?"

She flashes him a sweet, small smile. "Yes, all right."

"I'll miss you," says Sherlock.

"I'll walk you to the train."

* * *

"And my, how you've grown, Sherlock! Last I saw you I could rest my chin atop your head but now I'll have a crick in my neck just from looking up at you! So tall. So handsome."

His cheeks ache under the strain of false smiles as he is passed around from one friend of his mother's to the next. All of London seems to have come out to celebrate Mummy's 60th birthday and he plays the role of dutiful son well, even with his face hurting and his tie choking him. He wonders what Molly is up to, if she's deep in her Mind Palace occasionally calling out to him, getting irritated by his silence until she remembers where he's gone.

"What are you up to these days, dear?" asks the old biddy, whose name he's already forgotten.

"Finishing up my anatomy degree," he replies.

"Oh, how charming. A doctor."

"I'm studying to be a pathologist, actually." He's found that he much prefers to work without the pressure of patients yammering at him.

"Ah. Yes. Lovely, lovely." She clears her throat and drinks more wine. "What about a girlfriend? I have a delightful niece, beautiful and witty, and most importantly, single."

"I've got a girlfriend, thank you," says Sherlock. Snaps, more like, and he feels a pang of guilt as the old woman recoils.

He wonders what Molly would observe about her. Alcoholic. Desperate to hold on to her youth.

"Here," he says, gentler and soothing now. From his wallet he pulls a photo of Molly. She's in hideous jumper number one – the jarringly bright rainbow number – her head pillowed on his shoulder. Her smile is shy and Sherlock looks down at her adoringly. "That's my Molly."

"Ah, what a treasure. So in love. Although surely that jumper is a joke? It is rather... loud."

Sherlock just laughs.

After the party he calls Molly, but the phone rings and rings. He is not overly concerned as she is worse with talking on the phone than she is at making prolonged eye contact but it is a disappointment.

It would be lovely to hear her voice.

* * *

In preparation for these moments when Molly drops off Toby with no warning, Sherlock has supplies: an empty litter box, food, and a variety of toys all stored in a cupboard.

Unfortunately, he appears to be out litter to actually fill the box.

So, after John and Molly depart for the country, somewhere with moors, Sherlock is forced to lock Toby in the loo with the hopes that the cat will be able to hold it and off he goes to the store.

"Pardon me. Sir. Do you have a moment to help me something rather odd?" There is a very small woman before him. She wears a bright pink dress with a large floral print, making her look like something out of the 1950s. He long blond hair is tied up in a high ponytail and she is saying very strange things.

"Ah, yes. I suppose I do have a moment."

She leads him to a display of guinea pigs and pulls a polaroid from her bag.

"Now, which one of these little creatures looks as close to the one in this photo? I need it near identical, as primary school children are much more observant than you'd think. I was thinking perhaps that one there, or maybe one of those two? Sorry, I've just been standing here for nearly an hour, wracked with indecision and I'm in need of an outside opinion."

As she rambles on, Sherlock blinks down at her. When she finally pauses to take a breath she looks up at him, staring at his lips and blushing slightly.

"So," he says, pulling his attention from the small woman to the prospective pets. "You need to replace the classroom guinea pig with one nearly identical so the children remain unaware that the previous pet has died?"

"Wow, that's exactly right! You figured all that out, just from what I said?"

Sherlock smirks. If she is impressed with his observation of the obvious, she'd really be shocked if she ever happened upon Mycroft, or god forbid, Molly.

"I take it you're a teacher?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes. Tomara Kane," she says extending a hand. "Tomi. Friends call me Tomi. And you may as well."

She blushes once more and the color is pretty on her.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replies, taking her hand. "My friends simply call me Sherlock."

"Ah. Lovely. And what do you do?"

"I work at a hospital," he replies, unwilling to scare off this bright, bubbly woman with talk of dead bodies. "And that one there is your best bet. He's even got a speck of white under his chin."

Sherlock leaves the shop with litter and Tomara Kane's number.

* * *

"I do wish you would take a later train, Sherlock." Over breakfast the morning following the symphony's performance, Mummy is pouting.

"I've got class tomorrow, Mummy." He sips his coffee, much more pleasant than the strong acid Molly brews. "And I need to go over my notes. Plus, Molly's been alone for five days. I shudder to think on the state of our kitchen."

Mycroft chuckles without looking up from his sausages.

"How is Molly?" asks Mummy.

"Fine," replies Sherlock. "Still doing research with Dr. Thomas, but I think she's getting bored with chemistry. Last month she was paid five thousand pounds for proving that some local politician was dirty. The whole thing was amazing but I'm hoping she can stick with it to get her degree. She's got less than a year and then she can solve whatever mystery she likes."

"That sounds dangerous, Sherlock."

"Molly can handle herself," Mycroft says. "I've seen to that."

Sherlock gives his brother a grateful nod.

"And why is she not here with us?" asks Mummy.

Sherlock frowns over her tone and wonders where this conversation is heading.

"You know Mo," he says, chuckling. It's a strange sound. The result of his sudden nerves. "She's not one for parties or concerts."

"Yes, she's never quite learned how to conduct herself in most social settings," says Mummy. "You'd think she'd outgrow her awkward, abrupt manner at some point. Especially now that she's nearly completed university and sharing a flat with a live in."

Sherlock and Mycroft share a look.

"I wouldn't want her to change, Mummy."

"So you are still rather devoted to her, then?"

Sherlock blinks. "Of course." She's Molly. He loves her, has loved her in one way or another since he was ten years old.

"Sherlock, dear, understand that as you grow relationships change. I know you will start up your medical training next year, but you need to start considering what you truly want from life now that you have reached adulthood. Molly may never be one for parties and in all likelihood she would have embarrassed us all if she were here this weekend. Is that something you can live with? For the rest of your days?"

"Yes, Mummy," he says. "I have considered all this. And I love Molly. She does not embarrass me."

"And what about children?"

"Molly would be an excellent mother." They have never made any such plans for the future and Sherlock is not sure how he feels about children himself.

"And what if she passes her... affliction on to my grandchildren?"

"Mummy!" Mycroft admonishes. "She has no affliction."

"If Molly and I decide to have children, I would be thrilled if they inherited their mother's gifts. She's brilliant, Mummy. I always thought you recognized that."

"Sherlock—"

"Excuse me." He gets to his feet. "I really must pack. Wouldn't want to miss my train."

* * *

"Hello?" Voice hoarse with sleep, Sherlock blindly answers his phone simply to stop it ringing. The hour is unreasonably late and he is not entirely convinced that this isn't a dream.

"I saw it."

"Molly?" He sits up in bed. Immediately alert. "What's happened? Are you alright?"

"I saw it too," she repeats. "Just like Henry."

"Who the hell is Henry?"

"Client," she says. "And I saw a hound out there in the hallow. A gigantic hound."

"A hound? Truly. I thought you were joking about that."

"Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true," she whispers.

"Well, now you sound like Mycroft," says Sherlock. He sits up and turns on a light. "Are you alright, Mo? There is something not normal about your voice. And you hate phone calls."

"My hands are shaking. I'm afraid, Sherlock."

He swallows. "Of what?"

"I've always been able to… keep myself distant."

"Not always, Molly," he reminds her. "Not always."

"Fine. Not always, but now. I'm now very good at divorcing myself from _feelings_." She says the word as if personally offended. "But my hands are shaking, body's betraying me. Interesting, isn't it? _Emotions_. Grit on the lens. Fly in the ointment." The words are spoken like she is on the verge of breaking out into song.

"Molly?" he whispers, fearing the worst. "Where's John? Is John there with you?"

"He told me that I'm worked up, that I've been a bit worked up lately. But there's nothing wrong with me, Sherlock. John just won't leave me alone! Bloody wanker. I think he's quite cross. Good. I'm cross too."

"Are you on drugs?" he asks, already reasonably certain of the answer. There is dread and sickness coiling in his stomach. His fist tightens in the fabric of his sheets. If only Molly told him exactly where she was off to. He'd already be on his way.

"Of course I'm not on drugs!" she shouts. "Really, Sherlock, how could you possibly ask me… that?"

"Molly?"

"Hush, I'm thinking."

"Where are you? I'm coming to get you."

"Sherlock, you are an absolute genius. Drugs! Drugs, of course. The game, darling, is on!"

And then the line goes dead. He blinks at his mobile for a few seconds before calling Mycroft.

"What's she done now?" says his brother in lieu of greeting.

"I'm… not entirely sure." He progresses to recount every detail of his conversation with Molly.

"She's poking around Baskerville," says Mycroft.

"Baskerville," says Sherlock.

"A military installation."

"Why is she… No. Never mind. I'd rather not know."

"I believe Detective Inspector Morstan is in the area, or close enough to it. Just returning from holiday with that deplorable husband of hers," he says.

"You have an opinion on Mary's husband?"

"I'm sure she'll be more than happy to check in on our wayward girl. She is acquainted with the High Molly, after all."

Sherlock doesn't sleep well.

The following day Molly neglects to answer her phone. The occasional text from Mary or John is not enough to ease his fears.

Two days later, John calls. "It was a drug," he says. "In the gas, nothing she took purposefully. I got a dose too, as well as Morstan."

"Good." Breathing is once more possible. There is no longer a crippling weight on his shoulders and a sickness in his gut.

He sleeps through the night.

* * *

"Molly?" The kitchen is the predictable mess, full of laboratory equipment and half finished experiments. "Are you here?"

He is met with silence only and a quick search of the flat proves that Molly is out. Sighing, he unpacks, throwing together a load for the wash. He'll save that task for later as the mess in the kitchen is far more pressing.

Molly typically labels her experiments that need saving so Sherlock will spare them when he goes on his cleaning binges, but there is no typical notes declaring _DO __NOT__ TOUCH THIS SHERLOCK! I MEAN IT. NO SEX FOR A WEEK IF YOU DISPOSE OF THESE CULTURES._

He misses the familiar looping of her handwriting as he properly disposes of anything remotely hazardous and decides Molly is overdue for another lecture on cleanliness standards. She would be promptly sacked if she left Dr. Thomas' laboratory in such a state, and she will use the same practices here in their home at the very least.

With the last of the beakers scrubbed, dried, and returned to their proper place, Sherlock goes over the course work he missed while in London. He glances at the door, his watch, the phone, waiting for Molly. It is not rare for her to disappear, but surely her disinterest in welcoming him home is indicative of how much she missed him.

Occasionally he'll get a glance at some other couple, see the way other girls are sweet and doting, and he'll doubt. As shameful as it is, there are moments where he feels that they are not equally matched. Sherlock is so completely in love with Molly, but she can't be bothered to remember when he arrives home.

He has moments of doubt but then Molly includes him in some experiment or shares some fascinating fact. This is how Molly shows her affections, including him. She is not cautious around Sherlock like she is around most people. She is not worried she'll say the wrong thing and with him, she is herself without reservation. This is far more important than welcoming him home after only five days. Molly's never been good with time.

His eyes drift shut and he stretches himself out on the sofa, planning to simply doze until Molly returns. Instead the sound of the door finally slamming open rouses him from a deep slumber and vivid dreams. He sits up, bleared eyes and confused. "Molly?"

"Sherlock!" She is loud and delighted.

Sitting up, he rubs the sleep from his eyes and tries to determine why Molly sounds so strange.

Before he can reply or get his bearings, Molly is in his lap, legs on either side of his, hands in his hair.

"Mo—" She swallows the later part of her name as she attacks his mouth. She is rough and sloppy but he enjoys her anyway. This enthusiastic greeting evaporates his doubt. Molly missed him. Of course she did. Time is simply not her area.

"Molly," he says, laughing as she places rapid-fire pecks all over his face while he attempts to speak with her. He gathers her long hair, noting that it could really use a wash as he holds it back to properly see her face.

"You're back early," Molly says, bouncing slightly in his lap. "Don't leave again. I don't like it when you leave."

Sherlock frowns, tracing his thumbs over the dark bags under her eyes. Her pupils are blown wide. "I'm not back early. It's Sunday night." He glances at the clock. "Monday morning now."

"Monday morning," Molly says, laughing and leaning so far back she nearly spills out of his lap and onto the floor.

"Molly?" he asks, concerned. "Are you high? What did you take?"

Marijuana mellows her out. This is certainly not Mellow Molly.

"High on you, perhaps." She hugs him close, her lips at his neck.

Sherlock glances up noticing the stocked looking man loitering just inside their front door.

"Molly? Care to explain the presence of this strange fellow in our home?" he asks as she continues to nibble and lick and suck at his neck.

"Oh, yes." She sits up suddenly, turning to stare at the fellow in question. "That's William."

"It's Charles, actually."

"He gave me the cocaine," she says as it should all be rather obvious.

"Cocaine?"

"It's an experiment, Sherlock. Don't get fussy."

"Fussy!" sputters Sherlock.

"William is harmless," Molly continues.

"Charles!" shrieks Charles.

"He's outrageously wealthy. Look at his jeans. Purposefully destroyed denim, selling at an outrageous premium. And his trainers are brand new, the latest style. But this expensive, purposefully grungy wardrobe is not the result of drug money as evidenced by his hair cut, standard for upper class males, nearly all the boys at our school wore their hair this way, save for you, darling. I love your curls." Her hands are in his hair and there is wonder in her eyes as she marvels over the dark mop.

"Molly!" he snaps. "Focus."

"Met him on campus. He tells himself that he sells his drugs to meet young women, a means to seduce them, but he is really rebelling against the demands of his family. Although, he did come here with the expectation of sex."

"Why?" Sherlock demands.

Molly shrugs. "I told him I needed him for an experiment. He took experiment to be an innuendo when it very obviously meant science."

"What were you going to do to him?"

"Can't for the life of me recall," she replies, once more thoroughly distracted by his hair.

"You may go. William," says Sherlock.

"It's Charles."

"And do forget this address. If you ever sell Molly narcotics again, I will allow her to experiment on you. Either that, or beat you up. I assure you, either way there is the possibility for severe bodily harm. Do not let her small stature lull you into a false sense of security. She is deadly," says Sherlock, trying not to groan as her teeth once more find his neck.

And William/Charles flees.

"Molly," he says, catching her face between his hands and attempting to hold her still. She fidgets and pouts. "What were you thinking? Cocaine? You never expressed any interest in hard drugs."

"Seized an opportunity to experiment."

"What was the objective of this experiment?" he asks.

Molly smirks and leans forward to kiss him briefly. He allows it, kisses her back, but does not release her face between his hands. "Do you have any idea what it's like in my mind?"

"A palace?" he guesses.

Molly cackles again. "It's buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. I notice everything. I notice too much, all of it, all at once, and it gets filed and stored or deleted. Like when you pluck, pluck, pluck at your violin. That's what the thoughts feel like."

He doesn't understand how Molly's mind works. He knows she is remarkable, knows that she can get focused to an obscene degree, knows that she can withdraw completely from reality to wander through her the vast storage of her head that Sherlock dubbed her Mind Palace when they were thirteen. And he might know Molly better than anyone but he will never comprehend what it truly means to be in her brilliant, complicated mind.

"And then you touch me," she whispers, leaning in to kiss him again. He struggles to keep his eyes open and on her as he tastes her tongue. "The plucking gets quicker, more focused. And then you kiss me." When her lips find his again, his eyes flicker shut. "The plucking gets quicker and then you fuck me and the individual little plucks all merge together until I'm vibrating at the perfect frequency, until my mind is humming and blissfully blank. And then after I slow way down and for long hours I am shut off. I'm at peace, darling. You do that for me."

Sherlock is stunned. He is an utter fool for all those doubts because he makes her vibrate at the perfect frequency.

"And you wanted to see if anything else would have a similar effect on your mind," he says.

"Very good, Sherlock!" She giggles and smirks, swaying above him. His hands move from her face to her shoulders to steady her. "Quite the deduction. How observant of you."

"And what are the results of this experiment?"

"Not the same," she replies. "It's good. Not as good as you, but good. This… peppermint."

"Peppermint?"

"When you have a peppermint on your tongue and then you drink frigid water? You know the feeling? And then you breathe, your sinuses prickle with ice. It's like that, but everywhere, but in my brain most of all," she says, closing her eyes and pulling his hands up to her head.

"You're awfully chatty when high," he says.

"You should try it."

"No thank you. And I'd really rather you refrain from trying it or anything else in the future."

"So frumpy, my Sherlock."

She kisses him again, slower this time and much more thoroughly. When she pulls on the hem of his t-shirt, he lifts his arms.

"We shouldn't," he says.

"We absolutely should," she replies from the vicinity of his collarbone.

"You're high," he points out, making no move to stop her as she unfastens his trousers. His head falls back as he groans.

"I am a consenting adult," she says as she finds him hard. "Who regularly consents to you. Now fuck me, Sherlock."

He doesn't have it in him to refuse her.

* * *

After a few hours of sleep it is time for school. His classes begin an hour before hers, but Molly usually walks with him to campus full of chipper observations to counteract Sherlock's early morning moodiness. She seems to require half the sleep Sherlock does, but it's impossible to rouse her this morning.

"Bugger off!" she yells when he tries, tossing a pillow in his face and covering her head with the comforter. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. And shut the blinds!"

"So, I'll just tell Professor Thomas that you're sick, then?" he asks.

"I don't care," she mumbles. "Just stop talking. Wanker."

"I love you too, Mo."

* * *

She has take away waiting for him when he gets home in the evening. He takes it for the unspoken apology it is and kisses her temple as she hands him a plate. They don't speak much as it is rather obvious that she is still recovering from her _experiment._

When she silently hands over his violin he plays something soft, and before long Molly is dozing on the couch. She wakes when he lifts her and insists on walking to their bedroom herself, brushing her teeth and changing into her bright orange pajamas. They settle in bed, facing each other.

"Please don't do that again," he murmurs in the dark. "It scared me. You scared me."

"Okay, Sherlock. I won't do it again."

* * *

**All of you are so lovely for reading this and recing and following.**

**Betaed by Monica!**


	6. Reichenbach

**Chapter 6: Reichenbach  
**

"Sherlock!"

"Hello," he replies, popping the collar on his coat and trying to exit Bart's as Molly and John enter. "I was just heading out."

"No," Molly says, linking her arm through his and using all that hidden strength to turn him around. "You're not."

He walks beside her for a few paces, back towards the lab, while Doctor John trails behind.

"I've got a lunch date," he says, thinking of poor Tomi whom he will undoubtedly stand up at the café.

"Cancel it. I'll feed you." She lets go of his arm to pull two bags of crisps from the depths of hideous jumper number five, the one with the cherries. "I need your help."

"You always need my help."

"No one likes hyperbole, Sherlock. It's about one of your ex-boyfriends."

"I don't have any ex-boyfriends," he says. "Just a whole slew of ex-girlfriends, all due to your influence and damn _deducting_."

"Just saving you the time," she says. "They were all boring, boring, boring. Or idiots."

"Can we focus, please?" asks John, sighing.

"Yes!" says Molly as they reach the entrance of the lab. "Sherlock, we need your help tracking him down. He's been a bit naughty."

"Who? The ex-boyfriend I do not have?"

"Is it Jim Moriarty?" asks John.

Molly pauses with the door to the lab open. "Yes, of course it is Jim Moriarty."

"We got lunch three times. And then he tried to blow up John," says Sherlock, suddenly deeply uneasy.

Since Molly took the stand at Moriarty's trial and he was found not guilty, Sherlock's been plagued by dread, by a sense that _something wicked this way comes_. He wants Molly nowhere near this seemingly all-powerful force of destruction, but he has no say over the matter.

"And then he tried to steal the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England, and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at _lunch_, Sherlock." She waves around the crisp and slips into the lab.

"For the sake of law and order," says John, rolling his eyes. "She wants you to stop going on lunch dates for the sake of law and order. Right."

Sherlock smirks for a moment before texting Tomi his apologies and getting to work.

* * *

It is a kidnapping case and Sherlock ignores his unease as he helps Molly identify what was on the bottom of the kidnapper's shoe. Her presence at his side is a comfort, until he notices something not quite right with the consulting detective.

Her posture is off.

She's making herself small.

"What did you mean, I.O.U?" he asks, sneaking a glance at Molly while pretending to carry on with his work. "You said I.O.U. You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing. Mental note." She gets even smaller, her eyes glued to her favorite microscope.

"You look like your father," he observes. Molly is always telling him to observe.

She jerks a little, but does not look up. "Please don't feel the need to make conversation, Sherlock. And we both know I look more like my mother."

"When George was dying, he was so cheerful. You remember. He was lovely, except when he thought no one could see him," Sherlock murmurs.

Although she still isn't looking at him, he knows that she is totally focused on his words.

"I saw him at it," he continues. "When you left the room. He was so sad. Heartbroken, even, and frightened."

"Sherlock." There is warning in her tone, a request that he stop immediately because when she thinks of her father it is difficult not to be the girl who cared too much.

"You look sad," Sherlock says, watching her intently. "When you think he can't see you."

Molly glances at John where he sits reading at the back of the laboratory and then she is finally looking at Sherlock, maintaining eye contact for a few seconds before dropping her gaze.

But she keeps returning to his eyes.

"You are not all right, Molly," he continues. "And don't say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me," she murmurs.

Sherlock smiles ruefully. "I don't count."

And he doesn't.

Even after their breakup and Molly's attempt to turn off all feeling, she's never quite learned to hide around Sherlock, like she does around other people. It's a habit more than anything, her comfort around him, a relic of their past.

"If there is anything I can do," he continues, "anything you need, anything at all, you have me."

A faint color tints her cheeks and she looks at her hands in her lap. "But what could I need from you? Other then mortuary access, I mean."

She sounds genuinely confused by his suggestion and it feels a bit like losing her all over again.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head and trying to fight his grimace. "Although a thank you could very well be in order." He did cancel his lunch date, after all.

There really isn't anything he wouldn't cancel at Molly's request.

She squints at him. "Thank you?"

The words sound so unnatural coming from her in this moment, Sherlock would laugh if he weren't so frightened. He needs a moment alone, but letting her out of his sight feels wrong as well.

In the end he presses a kiss to her cheek on his way out of the lab. "I'm just going to get some crisps," he says, despite his lack of appetite. "Do you want anything? No, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I—"

"I know you don't." Outside the lab, he leans against a wall and slides to the floor, fisting his hands in his hair.

* * *

"Sherlock! Someone's at the door! The knocking is disturbing my thinking!"

Molly shrieks from the other room as Sherlock attempts to unpack their truly ludicrous collection of books. Walls of bookshelves were a must when they were searching to make the move to London. It made rent a bit pricier but Sherlock can easily afford it and if he tells Molly to pay a bit less than half, then she'll never notice.

Now that university is over, he's not entirely sure what she'll end up doing. Mycroft is desperate to hire her, but she seems much more interested in what she calls cases, which vary from missing pets to cheating spouses, dead birds to Carl Powers.

"You could help, you know," Sherlock says as he emerges from the study and passes Molly in the sitting room, where she's cleared their couch of boxes to stretch out.

"I'm thinking!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he opens the front door.

Before him stands Dr. George Hooper, wringing his hands. If the queen herself were on his front stoop he would be no more surprised.

"Ah," says Molly's father. "Good. I thought perhaps I got the address wrong."

"No, no," says Sherlock, shaking his head. "This is the new flat."

They stare at each other for a few silent moments.

"So, could I come in? Do you think?" asks George, shuffling his feet.

"Yes!" Sherlock jumps and holds the door open, stepping aside to let George pass. "Sorry, so sorry. Do come in. It's a bit of a mess. Haven't really had the time to fully unpack. I've started training at Bart's and Molly's already solved three cases since we moved here."

"Of course, of course. It is no bother."

"Mo?" Sherlock calls out when they reach the sitting area to find the couch empty.

"What?" She yells out from the study with its walls of shelves and unpacked books. "I'm helping! Who was at the door?"

"Come see."

There is a series of loud thuds accompanied by a slew of profanities and Sherlock winces, fretting over damage to both his books and his Molly. She pokes her head out of the doorway, scowling for a moment until she catches sight of her father and beams.

"Hi!" she squeaks, patting at her messy hair and then tugging down her too small shirt as she makes her way over. "Dad! Hi. What… what are you doing here?" She stares at her feet as she waits for an answer.

"Just, thought I'd pop in, see the new place. I probably should have given you more time to get settled in. I can go. Come back in a few weeks?" He glances around the messy flat. "Or perhaps a few months?"

"No, no, no." Molly shakes her head. "You are welcome anytime, Dad. Anytime at all. Sorry it's so messy. Sherlock's been so busy with the hospital he's barely helped at all with the unpacking."

Sherlock snorts. "Not accurate."

"And I may or may not have been avoiding the whole thing in favor of exploring the city."

"Ah, lovely. Lovely."

And awkward silence descends once more.

The whole situation is highly suspect. In the past thirteen years since he first met George Hooper, Sherlock has never – not once – seen the man go out of his way to pop in on his daughter. While they were away at boarding school and then at uni, he attended no parent weekends or special events. He did make it to graduation ceremonies, but that was largely Mycroft's doing.

For George Hooper to appear here suddenly with the simple goal of visiting his daughter, something has to be drastically off.

But Molly, usually so keenly sharp with her deductions and her observations, only smiles at her father as if nothing about the situation is suspicious.

"So, um." She swings her arms, glancing at Sherlock. It is a flashback to when she was young and without confidence, looking to Sherlock for clues as how to navigate unfamiliar social situations.

For once, Sherlock is at an equal loss for what to say and do.

"Tea!" The word bursts out of him with too much volume, making both Hoopers jump. He clears his throat. "Would anyone fancy a cuppa?"

Both Hoopers nod.

* * *

George takes them to dinner and he is a new man, delightful and engaging. He asks questions, gets Molly talking about her cases and her interests. There is wine and laughter. Molly is as happy as he's ever seen her, for this is her deepest and longest-lasting desire.

Sherlock says very little. He simply drinks his wine, eats his meal, and observes.

Not for the first time, he wishes he were more like his brother. Both he and Molly have super powered brains, and although Mycroft does not have trouble with socializing like Molly, they both seem nearly mind-readers with the accuracy of their observations.

Sherlock wishes he could learn to be like that, as now is the perfect time to use said superpower on George Hooper.

For the man is being perfectly lovely with his daughter and Sherlock would like to know why.

Preferably before Molly gets hurt.

* * *

He pulls on his coat and turns off the lights in the lab, thoughts revolving around Molly. She's made no contact since figuring out the location of the kidnapped children. Perhaps he had it wrong and this feeling of dread comes from nowhere, save his own constant worry over Molly's well being.

But then he recalls how small she made herself as she sat at her favorite microscope, a place where she is supremely self confident in her every action.

"You were wrong, you know."

The voice stops him just as he gets to the exit but he is not surprised to hear it. With all his internal organs sinking to the floor, Sherlock knows he was right.

Something here is very wrong.

He turns to look at her.

"You do count," she whispers. "How could you think that you don't count? Of course you count. You always have."

He smiles slightly as it becomes clear that Molly misunderstood him. When he claimed not to count, he simply meant that she is at ease around him without being conscious of it. There was no instinct to hide her sadness. As complicated as it might be between them, he knows Molly cares for him in her own way. He knows he counts.

She's sitting on the floor with her knees pulled to her chin, her back to the wall, staring blankly ahead. The sight makes his chest hurt and he crosses the lab slowly, moving to stand above her.

"I know," he says.

"But you were right about the other bit," she says, looking up at him now. For once she manages prolonged eye contact and for once he wishes she would look away. Her expression is unfathomable and fear seems to close up his throat again. "I'm not okay."

Rather than make it worse, her confirmation of his deepest fear soothes him. She's admitted it. That means she'll let him help.

He offers her a hand up and she manages to stand on shaky legs. Before him, she wipes silent tears from her cheeks. More replace the ones she's dried.

"Tell me what's wrong," he says.

"Sherlock." She takes a deep breath and fists her hands in her hair. "Sherlock, I think I'm going to die."

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a shuddering breath.

"What do you need?" he asks.

She looks at him again, and her smile is the single most heartbreaking thing he's ever seen. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

The reemergence of Molly's self doubt, after all this time, after all the people she's helped, is alarming.

"Molly," he says, taking her face between hands and forcing her to look at him. "You are _more_ than you think you are. I know that better than anyone. What do you need?"

"You."

He chuckles, the sound without humor.

"Well, that you have," he murmurs. "That you've always had."

When he bends to kiss her cheek it's meant to be a gesture of comfort, of support, but Molly turns her head at the last moment, fully capturing his mouth. Sherlock groans and stumbles. It takes him several seconds too long to get his wits about him and kiss her back.

Against his mouth he feels her panic.

"Show me," she says between searing, jarring, _painful_ kisses. With hands on the lapels of his coat, she pulls him back towards a wall. He goes willingly, noting in somewhat of a daze that she is kicking off her shoes. Her back hits the wall and she lets him go for a moment to strip off her tight black trousers with efficiency.

As she stands, Sherlock uses her upward momentum to lift her, to push her against the wall of the lab as she wraps her legs around his waist.

She grabs his hair, pulling his mouth back to her as he fumbles with his belt buckle.

"You count," she says against his lips, breath harsh and voice quite. "You count. Sherlock, show me. Show me I count, too."

"Molly, I—"

"_Show me_."

Her teeth sink into his bottom lip and he sinks into her and it hurts, but the pain is of the emotional sort. It is too pervasive for even the intensity of this pleasure to diminish.

He presses a hand to her chest but can feel no heartbeat through her thick jumper. The way she clings to him and her sharp little intakes of breath that match the pace he sets are insufficient evidence to convince him that she lives, so he wrestles her out of her jumper. Sherlock groans when his palm is warmed by her skin and her heartbeat flying in her chest.

"Show me," Molly demands, whimpering when Sherlock moves again.

Molly truly thinks she is going to die and he'll do everything to keep that from happening, but he's terrified that this will be it. The last of Molly.

He is scared and this hurts.

"I love you," he manages as pounds her into the wall.

In response Molly cries out, fingers tightening in his hair. Her forehead rests against his and her cheeks are wet with tears but the look on her face, the eye contact, keeps him from stopping until they both shatter.

Against his chest, he feels her calm. Holding her up is near impossible as he finds himself suddenly without bones, but when Sherlock attempts to move away, Molly's arms tighten around his neck.

"Just one moment more," she whispers. "Please, Sherlock. Just hold me for one moment more."

He breathes her in and steels his resolve to help her. To keep her alive.

When the strain of holding her up has him shaking, Molly unwinds her legs from behind his back. Her feet find the floor and she bends to collect her clothes as he fixes his trousers. They are both fully clothed again and Molly brushes nothing from his shirt.

"I'm sorry," she says, pushing her face into his chest. Tears soak through his shirt. "I… I got in over my head and now… I don't know what's to happen and you could get hurt. You could get hurt, Sherlock."

"I won't. And you won't either, if you'll just let me help you."

She lifts her face, giving him a watery smile. He kisses her quietly, thoroughly, in a way that was not possible before with all their tension and fear. The sex may have served to calm them both, but it is through this kiss that Sherlock makes sure Molly understands the depth of his affections and just how much she counts.

"You are not in over your head," he insists, shaking her shoulders slightly. Despite having no knowledge of the specifics, he is certain of this. "You are the most capable person I've ever known and no matter how dire it might seem at the moment, you can handle it."

"But he knows I care, Sherlock! About John. Mrs. Hudson. Morstan. He might find out about you too! What if—"

"You care more," he says, cradling her jaw. "You care about us and because you do, you'll win. He doesn't understand the depth of your ability to care. It's your strength, Molly. You'll keep us safe because you care. And I'll help you."

She narrows her eyes, not quite believing him. "Kiss me once more?"

He kisses her nose and then her temple. Molly lets out the smallest giggle and Sherlock finds her lips.

When he finishes with a final kiss on the corner of her mouth, Molly sighs and very nearly smiles.

"Now," he says, tucking her hair behind her ears. "What do you need?"

Molly takes a breath and steps away, flicking on the lights. Sherlock slips out of his coat, folding it over the back of a chair.

"Okay," says Molly straightening her shoulders and looking far more determined. "Let's get to it."

* * *

"It's not normal, Mycroft." Over his lunch break Sherlock smokes a cigarette and yells into his mobile. "He's been here four days. Molly's sought out no cases and is instead occupying her time taking him around the city. They spent two full days in the British Museum. Yesterday at dinner there was talk of him getting a flat nearby. A flat! Near by! Does that sound anything remotely similar to the George Hooper we both know and do not love?"

"It is odd," replies his brother. "I'll give you that."

"And even worse, Molly absolutely refuses to observe anything in regards to her father. There has not been a single deduction even though they are plainly there, beyond my ability to see."

"You always were the slow one."

Sherlock startles a cluster of pigeons as he paces around the delivery entrance to Bart's. He smokes too fast.

"When I suggested something might be not quite right here, she pitched a fit and forced me to spend an entire night on the sofa. Alone."

Mycroft laughs and Sherlock's frustration grows.

"Surely it's not the first time."

"It is. It is the first time."

"Have you considered just allowing Molly to enjoy it while it lasts? She finally has a father, it would seem."

Sherlock scowls, paces, and smokes. "I'm more concerned with the fallout when he goes back to being a cold, uninterested git."

"You've never been the controlling type," muses Mycroft. "And good thing too as there is no stopping Molly from coming and going as she pleases."

"I'm not being controlling!"

"Well, you sound controlling. And envious. Either of the time Molly is now devoting to her father or the fact that she has a parent taking a interest when Mummy has yet to even ask you how things are at the hospital."

Sherlock finishes his cigarette and deeply regrets that he only kept one for an emergency. He'll have to buy another pack but perhaps Molly will be too wrapped up with her father to notice.

"Couldn't you turn some of that deductive prowess on George?"

"Afraid not, brother-mine. Terribly busy at the moment. Not even in the country, as it were."

His head falling back to his the brick exterior of the hospital, Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh. "I am genuinely concerned for her wellbeing. The fact that she isn't a least bit suspicious of his motives will make it all the worse when she finds out what's really going on."

For a long moment, Mycroft is silent.

"I suppose I could look into things."

"Thank you."

* * *

The news Mycroft and all his government resources unearths is far from encouraging.

Brain tumors. Malignant. Fatal. Three months left, and that's being optimistic.

He tries to tell Molly but she won't believe him, despite all the evidence right in front of her: Mycroft's findings, George's change in personality, his bizarre decision to give up his previously much-loved life in the quiet country for the bustle of the city.

"He would have told me!" Molly shrieks. "Why are you so determined to ruin it? He would have told me, Sherlock!"

And then she storms from the flat. This time it is Molly who takes the couch, but Sherlock is still unable to sleep without her.

* * *

For a long month, Sherlock and Molly are strangers, passing only briefly when they both happen to be in the flat. She takes to sleeping days to avoid him at night and on days he has off, she flees to her father's new flat, only four blocks away.

No apologies, no pleading with her to see reason, no romantic gestures will thaw her icy demeanor, and Sherlock fluctuates between rage and despair several times an hour.

When she appears in the lab at Bart's, drowning in a black jumper and eyes brimming with tears, Sherlock almost thinks he dreamed her up.

"Molly?"

She says nothing and Sherlock glances about, still too new to the training program to feel comfortable smuggling in his girlfriend to restricted areas.

"You really can't be here."

Still, she says nothing. With a great sigh, Sherlock washes his hands and leads her out of the lab to the thankfully deserted employee lounge. By the time he gets a good look at her, the tears have escaped her eyes and flow freely down her cheeks.

"Oh, Molly," he murmurs, wrapping her up in his arms.

She sobs into his shirt, chanting, "I'm sorry," between hiccups and sniffles.

"Hush," he says, rocking her. "Hush."

Eventually she calms and manages to blink up at him. When Sherlock attempts to step back, Molly keeps her arms around him.

"I'm so sorry. You were right. Of course you were right. It was all right there."

"I forgive you," he replies, stroking her hair. "It's always been difficult with your father. What's happened?"

"He collapsed. Had to bring him here. He's not going to leave ever again," she whispers.

"Is that what the doctors say?"

Molly snorts. "No. They are far too diplomatic for all that, but it's obvious from just looking at them. He'll be dead before the end of the month."

"I'm so sorry, Molly."

"I just… I didn't want to see. Fucking _sentiment."_

"It's all right. He's your father. You are allowed to care."

She wrenches from his grip. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock! I let myself think that he finally, finally wanted me but it was all the tumors. You should see where they are. Changed his whole personality. None of it was real. Not one moment and I would have seen it if I wasn't so consumed by my own embarrassingly weak need for something from him!"

This is the moment he's been dreading but there is no satisfaction in being right.

"I think you are wrong," Sherlock replies.

"I'm not wrong!" she squeaks at him, incensed.

"You are. He's always loved you, always wanted a relationship with you, but he just didn't know how. The tumors made it easier to express. That's all." This is the only reasonable explanation for George's historical indifference. For someone to be uninterested in the brilliance that is Molly is unfathomable to Sherlock.

And Molly isn't exactly good at social interaction. She's learned, mimicking the behavior of Sherlock and Mycroft, but perhaps George had no one to teach him.

Sherlock, despite his typical pessimism regarding humanity in general, decides to believe this. For Molly's sake.

She gives him a wan smile.

"What now, Mo? What happens now?"

Molly shrugs. "We wait for him to die."

* * *

After finishing the painful task of falsifying her autopsy and ducking past swarms of press, he arrives home to find Molly in his empty claw foot tub, smoking from his emergency pack. Her hands shake so badly it is a struggle to bring the cigarette to her lips.

In the several hours since he ushered her out the back of Bart's, delivering her to a waiting car courtesy of Mycroft, she's raided his closet, discarding her bloodied clothes for Sherlock's purple button up, his favorite scarf, and a hooded sweatshirt from uni that he was unaware he still owned.

"Molly."

She jerks violently, gaze swinging to him in the doorway for a moment before she goes back to staring straight ahead at nothing.

Her lip is split and her eye is bruised, but considering what the rest of the world now believes became of Molly Hooper, she is remarkably unscathed.

Sherlock struggles against his own volatile emotions – fear for Molly, for the people she allows herself to care for now; rage, at Mycroft, at fucking Jim from IT; deep heartbreak – because Molly needs him steady and sure.

He climbs into the deep tub, sitting sideways as she does. His legs do not find sufficient room and he drapes them awkwardly over the side, ignoring the discomfort.

"John?" she croaks out.

"Alive."

"Yes, but is he all right?"

"Physically, yes."

"But—"

"Not now, Molly. You don't need to think on it now."

She nods and does not move away when he reaches up to rub the back of her neck.

"Ms. Hudson? Morstan?"

"Alive," he replies.

Molly nods again. She smokes the rest of the cigarette and then blinks at the bud as if she's forgotten the next step in the process. After a moment of silent consideration, she hands it to Sherlock. He runs it under a bit of water and disposes of it in the wastebasket.

"I'm keeping these clothes," she announces after several long moments of silence.

"Of course."

She then bursts into tears and allows Sherlock to gather her up in his arms. He turns them in the tub so that they can stretch out length ways. Powerless and hopeless, he can do nothing but hold her as she soaks through his shirt. He strokes her hair and kisses her temple and lets his heart break with her.

Eventually she dries her self out, her sobs changing to sniffles. Sherlock's calf falls asleep and he loses track of time, but he does not move, not daring to disturb her and risk sending her into hysterics once more.

Molly is hiccupping into his neck, shaking hands curled into his shirt, when Mycroft arrives. His brother has aged decades in the last day and Sherlock is almost overcome by the need to bash his face in, to make him hurt the way he hurt Molly.

In an attempt to get information out of Jim Moriarty, Mycroft handed over Molly's life story. That information was released to the public in a newspaper article Sherlock refuses to read that claims Molly's perpetuated every crime she's ever solved in an elaborate scheme to make herself look clever. There is enough truth in it – thanks to bloody Mycroft – that the lies become believable.

Long ago the Holmes brothers entered a tacit agreement to protect this most special and most important of girls, and Mycroft failed so spectacularly. It is beyond Sherlock's ability to understand.

Sherlock can do nothing but glare as his brother shuffles into the bathroom and sits on the closed lid of the toilet.

"I'm so sorry." Mycroft mutters into his hands. "So sorry."

It's disorienting to see his always-steady brother completely undone. When he removes his hands there is a single tear streaming down his cheek. It is nothing Sherlock's previously seen.

Mycroft's open display of emotion cools Sherlock's violent rage into something more manageable. He will have it out with Mycroft, for this betrayal is unforgivable, but not now.

Not with Molly so raw.

The bathroom falls silent. Occasionally Molly sniffs or Sherlock adjusts his legs or Mycroft reaches for his umbrella that is missing from his side for once.

"We must go," Mycroft says.

"Where?" asks Sherlock.

"Mummy's. The estate. You and I are retiring there to grieve."

"For how long?"

The brothers glance at Molly, still curled onto Sherlock's chest. She stares blankly at nothing and appears unaware of the conversation going on around her. Although the shaking has subsided for the most part, Molly is in no condition to go underground to dismantle Jim from IT's criminal web and eliminate the remaining snipers.

"As long as she needs," Mycroft murmurs. "As long as she needs."

* * *

Molly helps him throw together a bag. Only the leggings she wears now are her own, and Sherlock wonders what of the clothing she pulls from his closet is for her rather than him.

It is late into the night when they leave his flat but he pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over her head, carefully concealing her hair, as a precaution. Just before departing Molly sprints to the library, returning with his violin.

"Toby," she says.

Mycroft argues for a full seven seconds before giving in. Sherlock recognizes his easy agreement for what it is.

Penance.

Mycroft is at the wheel of the car, something that has not occurred since Sherlock was at uni, and he dutifully drives them to Baker Street.

It is up to Sherlock to retrieve the cat, and he uses his key to let himself in. The grief and exhaustion he feels is no act and will be enough to convince Mrs. Hudson or John that he is utterly devastated and that Molly is utterly dead but 221b is empty, save for the cat in question. He considers grabbing Molly some clothes, but the good doctor will be looking for any sign Molly lives and even missing undergarments would be considered evidence.

Instead he scrawls a note to John, explaining the he's taken Toby and will gladly keep him for the future. He hesitates for a moment before jotting down his mobile number. Sharing the doctor's grief is not appealing and he feels no guilt over his deception, for the lie will protect Molly, but she would want Sherlock to be there for those she cares about.

Perhaps if he is lucky, John will not call.

Toby is wholly uncooperative and he yowls as Sherlock wraps him in a blanket. Locking the flat with a wriggling mass of fur in his arms is another trial, but the moment he once more slides into the backseat, Toby calms. He mewls at Molly, soft and needy. She pulls him into her lap and then leans into Sherlock's side.

Mycroft drives them home.

* * *

**Betaed by the lovely (and speedy) Monica. **

**Thanks so very much for reading.**


	7. Fall

**Chapter 7: Fall**

"Molly asleep?" Mycroft asks, lifting his head from the papers as Sherlock enters the kitchen the following morning.

"Yes." He helps himself to coffee. "The longer the better. Who knows how long she was going without."

"So you've decided against the silent treatment, I see. Very adult of you."

The anger is constant just beneath his skin, and at Mycroft's statement, it turns violent once more.

"You deserve much worse, _brother mine._" He spits out the words, hands tightening on his mug.

"I am well aware," says Mycroft. Once more his shoulders droop, and Sherlock looks at his brother, unkempt and clothed in sweatpants of all things. Sherlock was under the impression that Mycroft slept in his suits, as he abandoned such casual attire before Molly moved to the village. "There is nothing you could possible say that will make me anymore aware of the extent to which I've failed her. And you, also."

Not once have they discussed this, but Mycroft is more parent figure to Molly than her drunk mother and distant father. The same can be said for Sherlock and although nothing compelled the elder Holmes to fill that role, he gave up much to see that the pair of them had some guidance in this world.

It makes his failure worse, somehow.

"All I can do now is use my resources to assist Molly in the work to come and to ensure that you are able to stay at Bart's, if that is your wish," Mycroft says, turning back to the paper. "Have you read this drivel? What kind of publication would hire such a subpar writer? And Kitty is an absurd name."

"I'm not reading it. Why would I read it?"

"You are not in it, you know," says Mycroft, casually turning a page.

"Molly said you'd given him her life story," he says, suddenly offended.

"I may have failed to protect her, but the same cannot be said about you. Moriarty was barely aware you exist. To hear me tell it, you and Molly were merely acquaintances and though you might have desired something _more_, Molly was uninterested," says Mycroft.

It's not that far off, really.

Sherlock doesn't have it in him to feel relief or gratitude.

* * *

Molly does not speak for two days. She barely leaves Sherlock's bed, but he does manage to get some soup and grilled cheese in her, pretending that the meal is his and allowing her to steal it off his plate.

Mycroft goes back to London, promising to return when Molly is ready to take on the next, dangerous part of her plan.

When Sherlock isn't laboring in the kitchen, crafting familiar food that has the highest chance of getting her to take a few bites, he joins her in bed. She silently pushes books into his chest and he reads out loud as Molly's fingers pet either Toby or his hair, whatever is readily available. His hands ache with all the violin playing she requires from him. Sometimes she clings to him and cries and cries.

In the night she frantically strips him of all clothing as he does the same for her. She needs him as he needs her and for a few blissful moments, they both forget.

They essentially live at the hospital for several weeks.

George is lovely, funny and charming despite the pain. He smiles at Molly and asks her questions. She answers with gusto until she seems to remember that he has tumors and then she shuts down again, excusing herself.

When she leaves Sherlock can see the weight of past mistakes clearly in George's expression.

He tries to tell Molly, but nothing can make her believe that George has regrets.

"It's the tumors," she says. "The tumors are interested. The tumors care for me. That's all."

When he finally passes, Sherlock is both relived that George feels pain no more and terrified for Molly.

At the funeral, Molly appears to spend the majority of the time battling her tears. Sherlock would rather her cry and rage and grieve, but instead by the end she appears utterly without emotion.

* * *

She does not request he lie with his head in her lap so she can stroke his hair while she thinks.

She disappears for days on end and although this is far from unusual, she does not regale him with her adventures or really speak to him at all upon her return.

She eats little and when she is home she spends the majority of the time locked away in the study, reading, looking for cases, ignoring him completely when all he wants to do is help her through this difficult time.

She does not sleep, or more accurately she does not sleep with Sherlock. Occasionally, she'll wake him in the night with her mouth and hands. She is rough but quiet and he finds himself chasing her lips, wanting nothing more than to kiss her.

She doesn't let him.

* * *

When Sherlock left for a jog around the estate – the house feels like a prison – Molly was asleep, but when he returns, red-faced from the combination of cold and exercise, she's sitting on the balcony off his room.

He pauses two floors below her, hands on his hips as he catches his breath. Molly leans over the railing to peer down at him. Between her fingers a cigarette smolders.

"Filthy habit," he shouts up at her.

She cracks a smile, takes a drag, and blows out a smoke ring. "Couldn't agree more. But I've already smoked my way through all Mycroft's good cigars. Took me four tries to crack his safe. Unacceptable."

"Anyone could see you out there, you know," he says.

"No one ever comes. And I'd see them before they got close enough to see me."

Sherlock frowns.

Molly makes a show off pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head. "Better?"

"A bit."

"Come up here. I missed you. Waking up alone is not overly pleasant."

He takes the stairs two at a time and winds his way through hallways and his bedroom until he is taking the seat next to Molly. He reaches for the cigarette, greedy for it, but Molly is quicker. She puts it out.

"Come on, Mo," he groans.

She silently hands him a nicotine patch.

"You're going to have to start wearing these yourself if you're not careful," he mutters as he secures the patch to his arm.

"You are angry. With Mycroft, I mean. Of course the whole situation makes you angry. It makes me angry too, but you are specifically angry with your brother." Molly looks him in the eyes, frowning slightly and cocking her head to the side as she studies him. "Why?"

He blinks at her. "Isn't it obvious?"

It only takes her a few more seconds of studying him before she understands. She scoffs and looks out over the estate.

"Really, Sherlock. You are so _dense_."

"Rude, Mo. That's rude."

"You truly think Mycroft went off on his own, sharing my life story with Moriarty without consulting me?" she asks, rolling her eyes and clearly annoyed by his lacking intelligence.

"Um." Sherlock clears his throat. "When you put it that way it does sound rather absurd."

"Of course it's absurd. We thought it might come to this, my name dragged through the mud although I was so hoping to avoid the whole dying situation, fake or otherwise."

Sherlock lets out his breath, deflating under a new awareness of his own foolishness.

"We were very deliberate with what we shared. Did you read the article?" she asks.

"I would never."

"Well if you did you would notice that everything in there is superficial. Detailed in the extreme, but superficial. There was much we did not agree on, your brother and I, but keeping you the most deep of secrets was priority number one," she says, frowning at her hands in her lap. "Moriarty bought it, as evidenced by who he chose to set guns on. Ridiculous, that you were not included in that but also critical to our plan. Even more critical was your safety. On that we agreed."

Sherlock sighs, not thrilled with the way the pair of them insists on treating him like a vulnerable, incapable child. True, he's not wanted much to do with Molly and her dangerous cases outside the lab, but he does not need to be protected to such a degree, especially if protecting him somehow harms Molly.

"Don't pout," Molly says. "Your brother adores you."

Sherlock snorts.

"He does. And... And I. Well. You know."

He frowns at her. "I truly do not know."

"You're Sherlock," she says, shrugging.

It explains nothing, really, but he still understands what she's grown so uncomfortable feeling since her father's death. He places an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to rest again his chest. When he presses his lips to her temple, Molly sighs.

"Forgive your brother," Molly says. "He did what he did with my full knowledge and consent. He feels bad enough that he couldn't figure out an alternative solution without you scowling at him all the time."

"Fine. If you insist."

"I bloody insist, Sherlock."

He grins for a moment before he realizes that Molly is recovering. Molly is coming back to herself and that means Molly will soon leave.

It doesn't bear thinking of.

* * *

A week after the fall and Sherlock is at the stove preparing supper – macaroni cheese, another childhood favorite – when she wanders downstairs, yawning widely, Toby held in her arms like an infant. Once again she's drowning in Sherlock's old clothes, worn drawstring pajama pants and a button up with an old dressing gown to top it off, hem dragging over wooden floors.

He glances at his watch, pleased to see that she slept for sixteen hours and twenty-six minutes. This is the first time she's made it downstairs since the fall.

"Where's Mummy?" she asks, sliding onto a stool at the counter, eyes landing on everything but Sherlock.

"France, I believe."

"She didn't want to fly home? After... After she heard, she decided not to come home."

Sherlock serves himself a bowl, moving with his meal to take the seat beside Molly, knowing full well that she will in all likelihood not eat off her own plate, but she'll steal from Sherlock's without thought.

"She doesn't know, Molly." He smirks when she steals his fork, leaning in to capture strings of cheese with her tongue. "Mycroft has neglected to tell her, as have I, and your celebrity does not extend internationally."

"Good," she says, mouth full. "Good. When she finds out you should tell her the truth."

Molly eats the whole bowl of pasta. Sherlock is dishing out more. His goal for the next few days is to feed her as much as possible, knowing full well that sooner rather than later she will be too far away, beyond his reach.

Mycroft emerges from the study, dressed immaculately, and requests a serving. He arrived sometime in the morning, when Sherlock was too preoccupied with making Molly moan to notice.

Molly makes no comment on Mycroft's weight and the fat content of their meal.

They sit in a row at the counter, Molly and Sherlock sharing, Mycroft with food of his own. It could be so many summer evenings from their youth, home from school, Mummy away, and Dr. Hooper uninterested.

Back then Molly belonged only to him. There were no others to save.

For long moments of comfortable silence, Sherlock can almost let himself believe that it's all so simple.

And then Molly speaks.

"You should tell them."

"Tell who what, my dear?" asks Mycroft.

"Ms. Hudson. Morstan. John. You should tell them. After I leave."

"No," Sherlock says.

Both Molly and Mycroft stare at him, surprised. He is not one to interfere in such things. In the lab, in his mortuary, he is in charge, but when it comes to the ridiculously dangerous, senselessly complicated, completely commendable life Molly's build for herself since getting sober, he typically stays passive.

"What? No? Why no?" Molly demands, arms crossed over her chest, macaroni cheese abandoned.

"No, Molly. You stay dead. Not only will it keep them safe from the bloody assassins your Jim from IT put on them, but, far more importantly, it will keep _you_ safe. You are about to attempt to demolish the network of a psychopathic criminal with the resources to strap bombs on people to give you riddles, who killed Carl Powers when we were sixteen without anyone noticing, who forced you to jump from the roof of my hospital and me to falsify autopsy reports. To do this, you must be dead. No one can know, Molly. Just us."

"I concur," says Mycroft, as if it clears up the matter.

"They won't tell anyone, Sherlock! You're being illogical."

"No." He stands, knocking over the stool. Molly jumps in her seat but does not wither under his glare. She even manages to hold his gaze for a few seconds. "You are being illogical. Their grief is leaving you blind. Right now you aren't the consulting detective. You are the girl who cared too much, and you will not tell them."

She pulls her knees to her chin, staring intently at the remains of Sherlock's dinner, and he is thoroughly sickened by his own words.

He loved the girl who cared too much, fiercely, with everything he was, and she loved him. He loves the consulting detective also, although the experience is marked by pain and loneliness and the constant fear that this will be the case to do her in. The true Molly Hooper is somewhere in between the cold creature she strives to be and the naïve youth she once was, but his harsh speech made it sound as if the girl who cares is without worth, repulsive, vile.

But he will take no chances with her safety, not after everything.

* * *

"I'm sorry," he says when she crawls into bed with him sometime later.

"Don't be. You are right."

"Caring is not a bad thing," he murmurs as Molly lies down at his side, flat on her back and staring intently at the ceiling.

She sighs. "So you always say."

"I love you, Mo."

She sniffs and finds Sherlock's hand under the blanket, lacing their fingers together.

"How could he not have seen how much you matter to me?" she whispers.

"Who?"

"Moriarty. How could he miss something so huge? So obvious? He didn't know me at all, not like he thought he did. Believed that I was always like this, as unfeeling as him."

"I'm glad."

"As am I. I don't… You've kept me alive, Sherlock. And not just last week. Will you come with me? I know I shouldn't ask and you've already given up so much, risked so much, but will you come with me?" She continues to stare at the ceiling but she squeezes his hand with a good portion of her strength and her nerves are palpable.

He honestly has done all he can to avoid thinking of the horrible moment of Molly's departure, and this was a possibility he did not consider. Still, he has his answer ready.

"Yes."

Her delighted chortle makes it hard to believe that anything could ruin this happiness for either of them. Molly's kisses are sloppy due to the scale of her grin.

* * *

"I cannot do this any longer."

Molly flips on the lights in the study but doesn't seem overly surprised to see Sherlock seated in an easy chair, waiting for her in the dark.

"Do what exactly, Sherlock?" She strips off her leather jacket, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. She pulls her long, lank hair back into a ponytail and doesn't look at Sherlock.

"Live like this. It's been months, Molly. You're a ghost. I'm concerned."

"Don't be," she says, tapping her chin as she studies the shelves of books. She selects a title and thumbs through it, but her eyes don't move over the page. Despite her apparent indifference, she is listening.

"Molly, please just talk to me. I know everything with your father was terrible but—"

"Don't."

She sounds like a robot.

"Molly."

"I said _do_ _not_, Sherlock. I have no patience for your pathetic attempts at conversation. It's all so dull."

He blinks at her, stunned by her cruelty and then choosing to ignore it.

"I feel like you're not even here, Mo."

"I'm standing right in front of you. It's not my fault you, in all your lacking mental capacity, have now decided to distrust your own eyes."

Sherlock gapes at her, at a total lost. Molly's always had difficulty with tact, but she's never been purposefully malicious.

He is losing Molly, she is losing herself, and he hasn't the faintest idea how to make it _stop_.

She snaps the book closed and returns it to the shelf before marching over to him and dropping to her knees. He watches her with utter confusion as she digs around in his trouser pockets, emerging with a lighter.

Pulling a tin from her own pocket, Molly retreats to the opposite end of the room to sit on the floor and lean back against a wall. She lights a spliff, inhaling deeply.

"Really, Molly."

"None of your concern," she says, talking around the smoke she holds in her lungs.

"It is!" he insists. "It is my concern. You've not been okay, Molly, and I'm your boyfriend. Your wellbeing is my concern because I care about you."

"Caring is not an advantage."

"Stop saying that!" He is yelling now, fingers digging into the arms of the chair. "Mycroft told you that when you were a child in a misguided attempt to make the teasing of our peers less horrible. It wasn't meant to be a life philosophy!"

She blows smoke rings and Sherlock growls in frustration, tugging on his hair.

"And you're not," she says, a moment later.

"Not what?"

"You're not my boyfriend," she says as if it should be wholly obvious.

And perhaps, after these last months, it should be. Sherlock feels ill.

"Come now," she says, smirking. "Surely even you, with all the air between your ears where your mind should be, had to have noticed that you have not been my boyfriend for some time."

He swallows. "Why, Molly?"

"Caring is not an advantage," she says again. This is quickly becoming his least favorite series of words in the English language. "So I will not be doing it any longer."

"Caring? Your plan is to just stop caring? Molly, that makes very little sense. You can't just… turn it off!"

"Do not tell me what my mind is capable of!" She leans forward, scowling and angry. "I can turn it off. I already turned it off. Why am I even surprised you have not noticed? You may not like it, Sherlock, but it's happened and you are no longer my boyfriend. I am no longer the type to do boyfriends or any sort of partner. The sex is merely chemical, pleasant yes, but certainly not anything I can't live without. Just as I can live without you."

"Molly, I—"

"I'm done. I'm not the weak little girl you thought you loved. Find someone else to take care of. Your preoccupation with me is as tragic as it is embarrassing."

Sherlock flees.

* * *

There is no Molly at his side when he wakes. Already, in the week or so since they fled London he's gotten used to seeing her face the first thing upon opening his eyes.

Her absence leaves him deeply uneasy and after dressing hastily, Sherlock searches.

He nearly plows over Molly, entering the kitchen just as she attempts to exit. With hands on her shoulders he smiles down at her but the morning greeting he plans to deliver dies on his tongue as he gets a good look.

Sometime in the few nighttime hours since Molly's emotional request that he join her in leaving England, she's changed her hair.

Frowning, he fingers the ends, missing those long locks already. She's dyed it nearly black and the lanky strands now only reach the tops of her ears. If her hair was curly, it would mimic Sherlock's own cut.

It is not just her hair that is reminiscent of his own style. She wears fitted black slacks, a white button up, black coat with the collar popped, and a blue scarf knotted at her throat.

He rubs the fabric of the scarf between his thumb and forefinger. Not just like his scarf, but his actual scarf.

"What's all this?" he asks.

Molly takes two big steps away from him. Compared to the closeness of the night previous, both emotional and otherwise, the space between them now is disconcerting. His stomach drops because he's lived through Molly withdrawing before. He can't believe he was fool enough to believe she wouldn't do it again.

"Molly," he whispers when she does nothing but stare.

"I can't be Molly anymore," she says, blinking down at her attire.

"So you've decided to become me?" He tries to stick his hands in the pockets of his coat, realizing too late that he still wears only a soft old t-shirt, not even a dressing gown. There are no available pockets. "Does this mean I should become you, then?"

His lame attempt at humor falls flat.

"You will stay Sherlock Holmes," she murmurs, staring intently at the floor. "You will take Toby, go back to your life with your friends and your job." She glances up, eyes searching his face for a moment before dropping once more to the floor. "You'll stay the same. Just as you should."

"But, Mo, last night—"

"I was out of my head," she says, voice rising and echoing in the kitchen. "Scared. Sad. You cannot go with me. I should never have asked."

"But you did!" In the few moments since he last attempted it, he's not sprouted any pockets and his hands knock against his legs. "You asked because you need me there, want me there."

"I don't need you," she says, slowly backing away. "Not for this. I need you here. Safe."

"I'm coming with. You asked me. It's all settled."

"You are staying here." She stomps her foot once. "I cannot be responsible for keeping you alive!"

"Oh, as if I am not capable of doing that myself."

"You're not!" she shouts, glaring up at him again.

Sherlock closes the space between them, looming over her in a way that is too threatening, but this time Molly makes no retreat.

"I won't let you do this alone!" Despite recognizing the futility of it all, he argues. It verges on pleading even and he cannot say why he doesn't give up gracefully. The moment she stepped away from him before, dressed up the way she is, Sherlock knew she'd changed her mind but if he lets her go he'll never see her again in all likelihood, and that is unbearable.

In reply Molly rapidly shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. He captures her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him. She appears so young. No one should be expected to take on what she will and certainly not alone.

"I'm with you," he murmurs, thumbs stroking her cheeks. "Together we are better, Molly. I'm coming with you."

For a few moments she really looks at him, eyes wide and unguarded. For a few moments she really listens.

Until she transforms before him once more into the cold, calculating detective.

"No!" Molly smacks away his hands and shoves his chest, making him take a step backwards. "No! No! No!"

"Molly, just—"

"No." Molly is calm again, detached as she was immediately following his father's funeral. "You will be no help, Sherlock, but an unspeakably annoying burden. You serve no purpose and being alone is much more preferable when the alternative is you following me about like a lost, love-sick puppy. I do not want you, Sherlock. How is it, even after all these years, that you are unclear on this fact?"

It is an excellent question, one that he ponders constantly when Molly disappears with Mycroft, without another word of goodbye.

* * *

**I know! What a place to leave it.**

**Also, I am off to Spain and Morocco for the next couple weeks so it's going to be awhile between updates. Although a good chunk of the next chapter is written so hopefully the wait won't be too terrible.**

**You are so lovely for reading.**  
**And Monica is so lovely for being the best of all betas.**


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